Shards
by Keryl Raist
Summary: The AU version of Shards To A Whole. Trust me, this one won't make a lick of sense without that one.
1. Chapter 1

Another stake out. By Tim's best estimate this is hour 4,872 of this day of staking out.

They're in a bus terminal, in something that looks like a bus, which is actually the com center for keeping eyes on the locker which is currently holding fake travel documents and more than five hundred thousand euros. Sooner or later their perp has to show up and collect this, after all, he can't get out of the country, let alone get away with his robbery, if he leaves the damn money in the terminal forever.

So, sooner or later, he's got to show up to grab the stuff.

But sooner wasn't yesterday, and it wasn't the day before yesterday, and right now Tim's sure as hell it's not going to be today.

So, he's sitting next to Tony, whom he rarely gets alone time with anymore.

"What are you working on?" Tim asks without looking away from the monitors. They take turns, half an hour on half an hour off. That's as long as anyone can focus, hour after hour, day after day on a fucking locker. It's Tim's half hour on.

Tony makes a non-committal sound, and keeps typing away at something. Tim assumes that's Tony's version of his holding up one finger, let me finish this thought before it goes skittering away.

So he does, sitting there, listening to the clicking of Tony's fingers on his keyboard, watching the locker that no one is showing any interest in at all. His fingers tap the desk he's sitting at, and he makes a mental note that next time they're breaking into the locker, tagging everything with RFIDs, and waiting for the signal to move instead of sitting here staring until their eyes fall out.

Tony stops typing and looks up at him. "Okay, what was that?"

"Just asking what you were working on."

"Oh. Reynolds," the marriage counselor they were seeing, "asked both of us to write the five best and worst things about our parents' marriages. A what did we learn from growing up like this, kind of thing."

Tim nods, that makes sense to him. "Don't marry anyone younger than your kids?"

Tony smiles wryly. "Believe it or not, that doesn't actually make my top five."

"Yikes!"

With a nod, Tony goes back to looking at his screen. "How about yours?"

Tim shrugs, wanting to look away from the monitors, but doesn't. "I don't know. Stay in the same hemisphere? Don't know enough about how their marriage worked to really know."

"You were there, right?"

"Yeah, I was. But my dad wasn't."

"Oh." Tony seems to think that's a good point. "How about good stuff?"

Tim shakes his head. "I've got nothing. How about you? What's your dad good at?"

Tony flashes him the patented DiNozzo smile. "Romance. He's always been good at that. Big gestures, little ones, no one makes a woman feel special the way my dad can. Sure, he'll be sleeping with the secretary and have a girlfriend on the side, but when there's money he's the guy who shows up with diamonds, 'just because they made me think of you,' and when he's broke, he can give a woman a daisy and make her feel like it's a diamond."

Tim thinks about DiNozzo Senior and has no trouble imagining that at all. "I can see that."

"Yeah." Tony sighs.

"Speaking of which, any news on Delphine?"

"You mean he's been with her nine months, isn't it about time he gets engaged again?"

"Something like that."

"Last I heard, they were still together and he had not yet gone engagement ring shopping. But at least half of the step-moms I learned about after the fact; I'm not holding out hope of him telling me about it ahead of time."

Tim nods at that, still staring at the monitor. "How many do you have done?"

"All five bad ones, one good one."

Tim nods and shuts up, letting Tony get back to his writing.

* * *

His own downtime. Finally getting to look away from the screen. He's got Jethro and Penny's notes back from Shadow Force and is thinking his way through them.

He stops for a moment, ideas tumbling around, nothing really concrete. Both of them noticed that one of the early scenes isn't really working, and he knows it isn't working, too. Knew it when he wrote it. It just kind of drags along, but he's still got to fill that chunk of time and drop that bit of information into the plot at that point…

He growls quietly at the notes in front of him, and Tony says, "Trouble in paradise?"

"Paradise is fine. Deep Six land is a bit different."

"So, is good old LJ Tibbs going to hang up his badge and hand the reins over to his trusted second-in-command Tommy DiGino?"

"Nah. LJ Tibbs is immortal. He's what moves books."

"Hard to believe the old man actually is going to hang it up."

"Yeah. He tell you he's already checked the regs to find out how much time per year he can Franks his way back into cases?"

Tony snorts at that. "He'll be Franksing his way back into your cases. He's not getting onto my team for at least a year."

"Is that for you or him?"

"Both of us." Tony's posture switches, straightens, and Tim catches it, sees what he's seeing. "Come on…" It's a man in a dark jacket who's gone past the locker three times now. "Open the locker…" Tony croons to the man. "Get us out of this prison…"

The man turns, takes two steps, and opens the locker three doors down.

"Damn it!" Tony says sharply.

Tim nods.

"I was thinking that we need to do something special for him," Tony says, getting back to what they had been talking about.

"Special how?"

"I don't know, yet. But we need to do something. Gibbs is retiring, that's big, that's planets shifting in their orbits, universes quaking big, and we need to do something to commemorate it."

"Yeah."

"Something better than a gold watch."

"Definitely."

* * *

Another half hour came and went, and one after that, as well.

And with those slowly crawling increments of time was a complete and utter lack of someone checking the locker.

Once again Tim was off and Tony was watching, and he got to thinking about the whole, 'you've brushed me off on the what was going on before Kelly was born bit.'

And, well, especially with talking to his mom last night, it's on his mind.

So… "I talked to my mom last night…"

"Mmmm…" Tony's watching the feed, not really paying any attention to him, which he doesn't mind; it's almost easier to say this if Tony's not entirely there.

But, less than three paragraphs in, when he gets to the got sick, cursing out Abby, stuck with Ducky knowing, Tony's paying attention, and by the time he got to the why he was saying things like that, why he even had phrases like that in his head, Tony's entirely paying attention to him.

Tim keeps talking about it, and also takes over on watching the monitors, because it's easier to just say this, without making any eye contact, and Tony's looking concerned, making the right sorts of concerned noises, and just, really, being a good friend, listening, taking it in, offering to beat the shit out of his dad and then tie him up and use him for target practice, stuff like that.

Tim can see it, out of the corner of his eye, Tony's on the verge of rage about this. He's furious about it. He's… he's doing everything a good friend should do.

And Tim's getting pissed. He can feel it just building, and he's not sure, at first, why. But he's really getting completely fucking pissed, rage into the sky, break things pissed.

And Tony's seeing it, looking more and more alarmed, as Tim's having a harder time keeping control of himself, and finally he says to him, "Tim, do you need to… I don't know… Do you need to go home?"

He's looking at Tim, eyes wide, concern radiating off of him, sincere anger and sorrow for him on his face, and Tim gets it, knows why he's pissed, knows why he wants to scream, and he nods, then got up, and left, without saying anything.

* * *

He texts Jethro on the way to the range, letting him know Tony needs backup. No he doesn't think anything is going to happen today, but that doesn't mean Tony needs to be there on his own.

Jethro asks what's going on, and he sends back one word. _Later._

_Okay. But we'll talk about it?_

_Yeah._

* * *

He shot through his first magazine, and the second one, and the third in fast succession, mostly just feeling the recoil and the force and the shattering satisfaction of seeing the target torn to shreds.

And it helped some.

He'd really like to fight. But it's the middle of the day, middle of a work day, so Jimmy's doing what Jimmy's supposed to be doing, working. Jethro's backing up Tony, and in no condition for it, and Ziva was on all night.

So he loads another mag. It's less satisfying, but eventually it gets the job done.

* * *

"Tim?" Abby's voice as he heads through the door.

"Yeah." He heads to the sofa, knowing she'll be over soon enough. And indeed, a minute later, he hears the flush of the toilet, rush of the sink, and then she was sitting next to him.

"What are you doing home at four in the afternoon?"

So he told her, and she was following along until he said, "And I was telling him, and just started feeling so angry, he's giving me perfect responses, sounding pissed on my behalf, and really concerned, and just…"

"Just…" she asks, not entirely sure what's going on with this.

"Just…" He looks away from her, eyes narrow, feeling the anger cresting through him again. "Like he didn't pull the same fucking shit on me for years!" He sees recognition light her face. She blinks slowly and wraps her arms around him. "Like he didn't superglue me to my desk. Like he didn't mock me for years. Like he didn't do everything he could to make me miserable. Like he didn't invent a fake woman for me to fall in love with. Like he didn't…" Tim shakes his head, and Abby holds him a bit closer.

"And I know it's been years since he's pulled any crap on me. Since he finally remembered that he used to get bullied, too, and how much it hurt. But I was talking to him, and he's looking at me with big, concerned eyes, and I just wanted to punch the ever-living fucking shit out of him over and over and over. I wanted to break my fingers on him.

"So he notices I'm not good, and asks if I need to go home, so I went."

"Oh, Tim," she strokes his hair and cheek.

"Yeah." He rubs his eyes and shake his head. "I don't even know what to do with this. It's been years… And he's just… clueless."

"Really?"

"If the idea that just possibly there's some sort of connection between how he treated me and me flipping out right now occurred to him, it was after I left."

"He on his own?"

"I sent in Gibbs."

"So, you can find out if it occurred to him. Or you could arrange for it to occur to him."

"Hm." He's not sure if he likes that idea or not. Then he shakes his head. If Gibbs smacks Tony upside the back of the head on it, it won't be on his say so. (Though he wouldn't mind if Gibbs did that.)

"What do you want him to do?" Abby asks, concern clear on her face.

"I don't know?" He's shaking his head.

"You're shaking your head. Really, what?"

His eyes narrow. "That reading micro-expressions class you took is turning out to be annoying."

She smiles at him. "Come on, what? You can always tell me anything. I'm not going to be offended. And even if you are overreacting, I'm not going to give you any crap about it. You're allowed to be a bit off kilter about this, especially right now."

He stares at the ceiling, and blows out a long breath. What does he want? "Acknowledgement that he was a fucking asshole to me for years. At least five, probably seven of them. That's a start. I want him to feel bad about it, really bad, and not because I'm some sort of fragile, damaged person who needs to be handled with kid gloves and can't take a joke, but because the way he treated me fucking sucked!"

He's staring at the fireplace, glaring at it. "I want him to know it wasn't just joking around. And it wasn't cool."

He looks back to Abby. "I want him to admit he stepped over the fucking line, and he did it over and over. I can take the McWhatevers, that's just him being him, and that's not the problem. But the superglue was just fucking sadistic. You remember how long it took for my face to heal up? He told all of the girls I was gay. The Claire thing… I mean, do you have any idea how long it must have taken him to set that up? Level five sorceress? Hours, weeks, of fucking around on that game so I could fall in love with a phantom, and then oh ha, so funny. Because my love life didn't suck bad enough back then! I needed to be rejected by every real girl I was even vaguely interested in, and then imaginary ones could yank my heart around, too.

"But, no, he's just clueless, listening, looking supportive, not a single idea in his big, fat, empty head that…" He lets that trail off. "I'm just going over the same stuff. I want him to hurt for it. And I know it's not cool-"

"And nothing. You don't have to make excuses for that. The only thing you've got to do is figure out if you want to talk to him about it, or if you want one of the rest of us to talk to him about it, or if you want to try and just let it go. You do not have to feel bad about being pissed off because you got bullied. And the fact that it was years ago doesn't mean it didn't hurt. And the fact that you took it, turned the other cheek, and smiled, doesn't mean you were cool with it. And the fact that he's not doing it anymore doesn't mean he gets a free pass for it."

Tim rests his head on her shoulder. "I don't tell you I love you nearly often enough. Could do it every minute of every day for the rest of my life, and it still wouldn't be enough."

She kisses him. "Back at ya, love. Back at ya."


	2. McGeek

_McGee says you need back up, _flashed onto Tony's phone.

_Yeah. Just need another set of eyes before I start to go bonkers. _Tony sent back.

_There in thirty._

* * *

Gibbs figures he could take the time to text or talk to Tony before getting to the stakeout, or he could just get there.

Won't take too long to grab his bag and get there, and sure, stakeout's only one step up from paperwork, but still, it's a step up, so off he goes.

He's wondering about what could have possibly happened to send Tim off in the middle of the day. New lead? He's got the computers with him…

No, he'd have called and said, not texted 'later.'

Which means it's not the case.

* * *

Gibbs would have rather driven. Would have only taken fifteen minutes if he had driven. But, on the off chance Geller is watching the terminal, having someone drive up, and then vanish inside would be a tip off.

So he takes the Metro and crutches his way for the last four blocks. It was nice to see his knee was holding pretty steady, but he knows he's going to be sore tonight.

Old guy with a crutch and book bag hobbling about the bus station isn't unheard of. He blends in awfully well.

He ambles over to one of the lines, moseys through it, shows his fake ticket (they set that up with the bus station when they started watching) and then heads through the line, blending with the other people stowing luggage, and enters the bus that's not a bus.

"What's going on?" he asks Tony as soon as he gets in.

Tony gestures to the monitors, and Gibbs starts watching. Then Tony takes a minute to get up, stretch, hit the head, and walk around for a bit.

"Tony?"

He sits back down. "Tim called his mom last night."

And Gibbs starts to get it. He knew that Tim hadn't told Tony or Ziva about all of what was going on, but now, apparently, he had.

"He told you about it?"

"Yeah. And he was really, really angry by the end of it. Looked like he wanted to hit someone, hard, a whole lot. So I sent him home."

Gibbs nods. He watches the monitor, hoping Tim's doing something useful, something that isn't self-destructive.

"Gibbs?"

He tilts his head a bit, signaling, _I'm listening._

"The thing with his dad, it was just words, wasn't it?"

Gibbs shrugs. He doesn't think Tim lied to him or Jimmy about it. But he wouldn't put it past him to leave bits out or to have forced them out of his memory. "If it wasn't, he's not telling anyone."

Tony nods. "Why is John McGee still breathing?"

"Because Tim wants him to."

"Okay. That ever changes, I'm in."

"I know."

* * *

Four turns later, when it was back to Tony watching the monitor, a thought started to meander through Jethro's mind.

Every time he's talked to Tim about stuff like this, he starts out angry, and ends less angry. Sad, sure, shell-shocked, okay, but anger usually wanders off over the course of talking about this.

"He was getting pissed while telling you?"

"Yeah."

"Started off pretty cool and got upset?"

"Yeah." Tony's nodding. "Why?"

Gibbs shakes his head. "What happened with his mom?"

"They just talked."

"Nothing bad?"

"Not this time. Sounded like he didn't know what to do with what happened with her."

"Okay. You sent him off, did he look like he was about to do something stupid?"

"You mean like cut the shit out of himself by stepping into a tornado of broken glass?"

"Yeah."

"No. Just felt angry, really angry. Don't think I've ever seen him that angry."

Gibbs nods at that, too.

* * *

_You're not doing something stupid, are you?_

Two minutes later he got back. _Utterly destroyed a few pistol targets. Going home now. _

_Okay. _ Left unspoken is, _Set an extra place, I'm coming over for dinner and we will talk about this_, but he doesn't think he needs to say it, by now Tim knows.

"You texting him?" Tony asks.

"Yeah. Making sure he's okay."

"Is he?"

"Says so."

"Good."

Gibbs watches Tony. He can see Tony's thinking, hard, about this. He can see the anger and concern.

Apparently Tony can feel Gibbs' eyes burrowing into him, so he says, "I never even guessed it was that bad."

"Yeah. I didn't, either. Should have, but I didn't put it together."

"He didn't just remember, right? It wasn't he kept it down or blanked it out, and then it came back to him, right?"

"Don't think so. He just hit the point where he had to talk about it."

"God."

"Yeah."

"Should I tell Ziva?"

"I doubt he'd mind if you did. I know he doesn't like talking about it."

"Yeah, he told me he had to remember it to talk about it, and… And now I know why he blew me off twice."

That gets Gibbs thinking. He knows that Tim didn't call in Tony after he cut himself up. He realizes something else, Tim never calls in Tony for deep, personal, intimate stuff. Tim didn't tell Tony about moving out of the job to Cybercrime, he didn't tell Tony he was going to ask Abby to marry him, he didn't tell Tony they were dating. Tony was the last one to find out about Kelly. Tim never tells Tony about…

About anything he can be teased or bullied over.

He finally tells Tony about this, this huge, big, traumatic thing, and as he gets talking he gets angrier and angrier.

"Fuck."

"Gibbs?" Tony asks.

Jethro hadn't meant to say it out loud, but it slipped out, because he thinks he knows what's going on right now, and if he's right… "Did you say anything to him?"

"Not really. Listened mostly. Offered to help him kill his dad. Called his mom a bitch for going along with it. But not really, just let him talk. That's what you're supposed to do, right? Why?"

Jethro checks the clock on his monitor, still an hour before Ziva and Draga will show up for their shift. Two hours before he can get to Tim's.

"Did he seem angry _at you_?"

He sees the recognition hit Tony, the way his eyes went from curious to blank to ashamed, and the soft, "Oh" that slips out on an exhale. "I…" he stops, not sure how to finish, and just lets it lie. "Fuck."

"Yeah."

"What the hell do I do with this?"

"Ignore six."

"Yeah! I get that. But…"

"But?"

"'I'm sorry' doesn't seem like it's enough."

"It might not be. You might have to take some of, hell, maybe a lot of, what you gave out before it's okay."

Tony sighs and says, "Yep. You going there after here?"

"Yeah."

"We're on shift again tomorrow. I'll go with you, try and get this done tonight."

* * *

Tony didn't go in. He waited in Gibbs' car. Sooner or later Tim'll come out, or he'll get a text telling him to go in.

He sits there, wondering how bad this is going to be.

He tries to remember how it felt when John Smith looked at him and said, "Why are you apologizing to me?"

Honestly, embarrassing mostly.

And there was some angry, but that was so far back… Mostly embarrassed, bad enough to have gone on and on about it, and then been wrong, about his own memories.

Gibbs had told him he didn't have to tell Tim. And he didn't. Have to, that is. But he did tell him, because it was the right thing to do.

He knew, after he talked to John, that he had flipped the story. He knew he was a victim in grade school and junior high because he was the 'homely' boy who spent too much time on his own watching movies and tended to cry at night. And he knew that by the time he hit high school he was dishing out all the shit he ever got, and then some, because if you were on the dishing it out side, you didn't have to take it. He beat his sympathy into submission, killed the part of him that felt for his victims, and went with it.

Eventually, he liked it. Eventually his laughter wasn't forced. Eventually it wasn't a protective gesture anymore. Eventually he enjoyed it, spent time planning new and more elaborate pranks.

Eventually he had a perfect mark, one who would take whatever he gave, always fell for whatever trap he set, who almost never gave him any crap back, and was always satisfyingly flustered.

And until he got talking about hanging John Smith up by his underwear, watching McGee respond to it, it didn't hit him that what he'd been doing was a really shitty thing.

And it wasn't until tonight, that just not doing it anymore, stopped being enough.

* * *

It occurs to Tony, as he waits (and waits, and waits, though in reality it's only been forty minutes) that part of really apologizing means opening yourself to whatever the person you wronged needs to do to feel right again.

That's the thing about apologies, the "I'm sorry, but…" isn't going to cut it. He can't stick a but on the end of this. He can't say, 'but I didn't know,' or 'but I was just joking,' or, 'but it happened to me, first,' or any of it. If he puts a but on the end of this, he's excusing his behavior, saying, on some level, it was okay, and that Tim doesn't have the right to be truly pissed at him.

If he's sorry, if he means it, he's got to take what Tim needs to do to make this right.

And given how much time Tim's been spending at the gym lately, and how angry he looked when he left, this might really hurt.

It occurs to him, as he slips into an hour of waiting, that even if Tim doesn't beat the shit out of him, he's good enough with words, and knows him well enough, that this might hurt on an entirely different level.

When hour one slipped into hour two, and he's still sitting out there, it occurs to Tony that maybe Tim doesn't want to see him, doesn't want to try to fix this, maybe all of the shit he's dealt out really is coming back to bite him in the ass in one huge, crippling chomp.

Then Tim was standing on his porch, all dressed up, kilt and boots and eyeliner and he must have gotten to the tattoo artist over the weekend because he can see the outline of the dragon on his calf, and…

And Tony closes his eyes, he thinks he knows what's going on.

This is Tim, in all his weird, McGeek, McGoth, McGoober glory, daring him to make an issue of it.

_Shit._

Honestly, it'd be easier to take the beating.


	3. Battle Gear

Habit helps. He and Abby make dinner, (and he made and extra serving for Jethro, fairly sure he'd be showing up at some point) deal with Kelly, and he rewrites that scene, tightening it up, rearranging it. It's zippier, maybe not great, but… it's solidly better.

And, as he's putting the last bits on his page, and Abby's getting food off the grill and into the kitchen, they do hear a car pull up.

Tim glances out of his office window and notices two people in Gibbs' car, even though only one of them heads into his home.

Gibbs doesn't knock, just comes in, and Tim greets him with, "I take it you two figured it out?"

Gibbs nods.

"He figure it out or you did?"

He does that little _could you have possibly asked me a different question because I don't want to lie but I'd rather the truth was different _gesture.

"You did, then?"

Gibbs nods.

"Well, come on in. Abby's pulling the burgers off the grill."

"Burgers?" Gibbs asks. He didn't smell beef when he pulled up.

"Ground turkey, bacon, onion, and kalamata olives."

"Sounds good."

"Yep."

* * *

It isn't a ridiculously tense dinner. Gibbs isn't asking much, because he's figured it out. Abby's being supportive, asking about the case, distracting attention away from Tim, knowing that he's not really wanting to be in the middle of it right this second, especially not while eating.

But eventually, they do get done with the food, and Abby shoos them out of the kitchen, with a look and a pointed "Go, talk."

"You gonna make him sit out there all night?" Gibbs asks, both of them sitting in Tim's office.

"I might. Not really feeling like dealing with him."

"You're both on come 8:00."

Tim rolls his eyes. "I _know._ And I'm not running off again. I'll be on, and I'll work."

"Good."

"Not like I don't have practice at it."

Gibbs shoots him the _keep talking_ look.

"I was thinking about it when I was driving home, trying to remember how many years Tony was a condition I managed so that my career could work. At least three, maybe five. Seven before he started treating me like a real person. Had to go with you guys to Somalia and get Ziva back for that. At least, that's when he stopped calling me Probie."

The look on Gibbs' face is gentle. "That was never a sign of disrespect."

"When Franks did it to you. It was always a mark of my not being a real cop for Tony. It was his way of making sure I always knew I'd never be his equal. It was a way of making sure I never felt secure in my position, that I was always one screw up away from being tossed off the team."

Gibbs shrugs, he's not entirely sure how Tony understood the whole Probie thing, though he's doubtful Tim's right. Some sort of pet name, sure, but it probably was about making sure Tim knew his place (under Tony), too. But not a way of signalling he wasn't really part of the group.

"You want me to send him home? I can crash here, go in with you tomorrow."

"I don't know. Probably better off just getting it done."

"Probably." Tim's very much not getting up or heading to the door, and Gibbs sees it, and won't push him. He sits there, next to Tim, waiting, and another thought hits him, one that possibly hasn't hit Tim, one that's important, and one they didn't deal with before.

"I told you I was sorry I didn't see it. That I didn't look hard enough to see what was up with your parents. Tim, that wasn't enough. I saw him do it. Saw Kate do it. Saw Ziva do it, and I never stopped them. It was my team, I was in charge, I saw it and looked the other way. I'm sorry for that."

Tim stops staring at the window curtains, yanked away from his imaginary argument with Tony by those words.

"Jethro, no. Don't… I'm not some fragile, broken thing that needs extra protection."

"Not saying—"

"Yes, you are. You didn't protect Kate from him. You didn't shield Ziva or Jimmy. And I really doubt you feel bad about that."

That pulls Gibbs up short. "Never thought about it."

"Right. What he did never really even hit your hazing radar because compared to what the Marines dished out he was just teasing."

Gibbs acknowledges that with a look. "Still feel bad about it."

"Would it make you feel better if I got angry at you, too?"

Gibbs shrugs, then nods.

Tim snorts at him. "Too fucking bad. I'm angry at my dad, and I'm angry at my mom, and I want to hit Tony right now, and eventually I'll get pissed at Kate and Ziva, 'cause they both played along, too. But right now, I can't be angry at you. I need someone in my life besides just Abby that I'm not angry at…" He pauses as that, because that's not quite right. He's not pissed at Jimmy or Breena or Ducky or Penny or Sarah, or most of the people he loves. So it's something more than just needing a calm place in the storm. He looks at Gibbs, who is watching him figure out what's in his head, and feels it, knows what's going on. "I need a_ parent_ that I'm not angry at. So guess what? You get a pass. Maybe not forever, but for right now, you've got one. You may have scared the shit out of me by being constantly intimidating, but you never pranked me, you never glued me to anything, you've never called me McGeek, or pissed on my sex life, or called me a freak, so if that's setting the bar too low, I don't care. I need a dad. I need a man I can depend on to be there for me. I need someone I can look up to, who doesn't freak out about who I am or who I want to be. So, if you want me to be angry, too fucking bad, because I cannot bear to be angry at you, too."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

Gibbs nods. Seeing that the part of Tim that craves male approval is still there, still needing it. And suddenly gets, maybe on a level Tim doesn't or won't, why he 'managed' Tony for so long and put up with all of it, because Gibbs hadn't stepped into a Dad role back then, and Tony's jerk of a big brother was the closest thing Tim got to approval from an older male. "I'll take the pass." _And I'll take your anger when you can handle it, too,_ is very clear on his face.

"Good." Tim stands up and heads out of his office toward the stairs.

"You gonna talk to him?"

"Eventually. Gotta get ready first."

* * *

It was saying the word freak, and saying to Gibbs what he needed from him that starts the idea of what Tim is going to do.

Tony's going to apologize. He is going to be sorry for what he did. He is going to own up to it, and see the man in the mirror wasn't all that pretty.

All of that is going to happen.

But something else is going to happen, too.

Tim's drawing his lines. He's going to spell out exactly what he needs from Tony, and it's not going to be Tony feeling bad, because really, that doesn't do anything, that just makes him feel a little better.

He needs a friend who can see who he is, recognize it, accept it, and support it.

* * *

Clothing can be a shield, or depending on how you use it, a weapon.

Tim's always used it as a shield. Blend in, be quiet, don't attract attention, dress like the rest of the herd and you'll take less flack. For him, for a very long time, the primary purpose of his clothing was a way to make sure no one noticed him.

Which isn't to say that he's got anything against office casual jeans and button downs, unlike Abby, he's genuinely comfortable in them. Because when you wear armor long enough, it molds to you, becomes a second skin, fits your flesh and makes you feel safe.

They're genuinely him. Because the defense mechanism they represent is genuinely him, as well.

The kilt and the tattoos and the boots and the eyeliner are all him, too. The part of him that isn't afraid to attract attention.

And right now, Tony is going to deal with all of him, especially the parts of him that make Tony uncomfortable. Tonight he's going out there, all of himself visible, and using his clothing as a weapon instead of a shield.

* * *

Takes about half an hour to get dressed, and fifteen minutes of that is the nail polish. He checks the NCIS regs while they dry, and notices that there is nothing in the dress code against male agents wearing nail polish. Which he supposes makes sense, the ladies are allowed to wear it, and if they are, NCIS can't ban the male agents if they don't want to get hit with a sexual discrimination suit.

Which means unlike every other time he's done his nails, he's not taking it off before heading to work. All tomorrow his nails, matte black, are going to looking up at Tony, taunting him, taking him to task, making him deal with the fact that Tim's different, that he likes being different, and if Tony's really his friend, he'll stop trying to force him into a Tony-shaped mold.

See if he can make it through a full day stuck in a bus, just the two of them, without some snide comment designed to make Tim feel bad about it and Tony feel more comfortable because he's made Tim feel bad about it.

Tim's not feeling intensely hopeful about that.

* * *

Eyeliner was another five minutes. Hasn't done it for himself in forever, so he muffs the first two tries.

Third shot is a charm.

And unlike the nail polish which is black, he did a version of Abby's trick of green and gray. He did it in green and black. It's very obvious, and femme, and it's obvious and femme because he doesn't want to hide that part of himself either, and he knows it, like the kilt (The _skirt_ Tony calls it, always calls it.) will bug Tony.

He slips on his collar. He's not sure if Tony actually knows what it means. (He was on vice for a few years, so he might, but he's so goddamned vanilla he may not.) He's never worn it in front of Tony, or anyone else in their family who isn't Abby, but on the off chance he does know what it means, it'll bug the shit out of Tony, so he puts it on.

Years ago, when they were first dating, Tony freaked out when he walked in on Tim running the game. Probably would have wet his pants if he'd wandered in a week earlier or later, and seen one where Abby was running things, let alone doing him with the strap on.

Anything outside of the normal 'male' role bugs Tony, makes his inner frat boy itch, makes him feel like he's got to shut it down, because he can't get outside of the big, swinging dick version of masculinity.

* * *

Abby comes in while he's lacing up the boots. She looks him up and down, and says, "Ready for battle, then?"

"Yeah."

She puts her hands on his shoulders and kisses him, and then rests her palm on his cheek. "Just remember, he is your friend, you do love him, and you will miss him if you burn the bridge between you two."

He sighs, because dressed for battle, looking to piss Tony off, calling him a condition he managed, angry as all get out, he knows that she's right. "I know."

"And you are right to be angry, and to expect an apology, and to make him see who you are and accept it."

He nods at that, too. "He ever give you any shit about the Goth stuff?"

"No. But I know I scared the hell out of him the first few months he was at NCIS. He'd try to be cool about it, but he didn't like being alone in a room with me." She kisses him one more time, slow, lips lingering over his, then pulls back. "I really like the eyeliner."

He half-smiles at her. "It'll probably still be one when I come back."

"Good."

* * *

He half-notices that Jethro is on the sofa with Kelly as he heads out, but he doesn't pause long enough to catch his eye as he left.

He stands on the front porch, staring at Tony in Gibbs' car, and then crooks his finger at Tony, watching him get out.

After about thirty seconds, Tony is standing there, in front of him, looking really sheepish.

Tim raises his left eyebrow a little, and says, dryly, "Comments, DiNozzo?"

He watches Tony's eyes slide up and down his body, linger on his nails, collar, and eyes, feeling the waves of deeply uncomfortable oozing off of him, but all he says is, "Is your leg supposed to look like that?"

Tim glances down. "Yeah, three day old tats look like that. Skin gets red, shiny, and flakey. It'll be worse when I go back for the first layer of shading in a month. So, that all you got for me? Nothing about the _skirt_ or the boots or the nail polish or eyeliner?"

Tony shakes his head.

"You've never been afraid of hurting my feelings before. Why so fucking silent, now? After all, nothing's changed. Still the same guy I was yesterday, and yesterday, you would have said a hell of a lot more than 'Is your leg supposed to look like that?' Yesterday you'd have had at least a half-dozen things to say about this."

"Yesterday you weren't pissed at me."

Tim shrugs. He's not sure if yesterday he wasn't pissed, or if yesterday pissed was so deeply buried that he just couldn't find it. Or maybe, yesterday, so long had gone between something that Tony had done that genuinely had pissed him off (walking in on him and Abby and then freaking out about it) and now, that stupid little annoying crap just didn't matter.

"I'm sorry, Tim."

Tim stands there, impassive, unimpressed, and waits.

Tony's just looking at him… No. Tim's eyes narrow. He's looking slightly to the side of him, eyes wide and earnest, deeply uncomfortable, not saying anything.

"Why?"

For a second Tim sees a flash of annoyance on Tony and the sort of expression that he'd characterize as being about to say, _Don't be a girl. Don't make me figure out why, _but embarrassed and uncomfortable kills it pretty quick.

"I hurt you. And that wasn't cool."

Tim shakes his head. "Not good enough."

Apparently, Tony wasn't expecting that. "What?"

"Did I stutter? Use words that were too big for you to follow? Those two syllable ones can be tricky, especially for a phys ed major. Not. Good. Enough."

Tony just stares at him, earnest is gone and shocked to hell and gone has replaced it. "I…" but he can't think of anything to go with that, so he doesn't follow it up with anything.

"Yeah, you hurt me, or at least fucking tried to, but hell, I dealt with crap like what you pulled every single day when my dad was home and being nice. McGeek doesn't quite do much when you've heard fag, cocksucker, cunt, pussy, failure, waste of space, retard, and disappointment. And having half my face ripped off when I had to pull it off my desk hurt, but compared to being threatened with gang rape by someone who meant it…" Tim shakes his head derisively.

"It's not about me being hurt." Well, it is, but they'll get there, eventually, mostly this is about being angry, and letting it out. "It's about you being a sadistic asshole who got off on pain and fear. It's about never thinking about anyone who wasn't you. Yeah, it's about me because I'm standing here in front of you and you've got to keep dealing with me, but it's also about every other person you hurt. It's about jokes and lies and pranks and all those women you never called back and the fact that you're the sorry son of a bitch who constantly needed to cut everyone else around him down to make himself feel like he was worth anything.

"That's all it ever was for you. You're standing there, hurting, powerless, so you decided to spread it around, make sure everyone around you hurt, too, because maybe if they were hurting you'd be okay. Because if they were hurting, and you got to do it, you got the power back. Well, it wasn't fucking okay. It was a shit way to buy yourself some respect."

Tony still just stands there, and Tim can see there are things he probably wants to say, but that he's also with it enough to know that saying those things probably isn't a good plan.

"Come on, this is where you say something about you were just joking, just fooling around, and it was no big deal and…"

Tony shakes his head. He might want to say it, he probably still believes it, but he sure as hell isn't going to say it, not to Tim, not today.

Tim's glaring at him, because he can see that Tony's embarrassed by this, and that he's feeling pretty crappy, and that he's got enough self-preservation instincts to not shoot his mouth off now, but he's not getting the sense that this is going any deeper than Tony feeling bad about finding out he picked on a kid who was already broken.

"It was never just a joke, Tony. You weren't fooling around. You wanted me scared. You wanted me nervous. You wanted me uncomfortable. It wasn't enough that I was young, and new, and green, and trusting. And it wasn't enough that I wasn't as smooth, or attractive, or confident. It wasn't enough that you're a decade older, had thirteen years more experience on the job, women hanging on you, and that just about everyone took one look at you and liked you. That didn't fill the hole, so you had to keep cutting my legs out from under me. You wanted me to know, in every single, possible way that I was not your equal, that I did not deserve even the simple, basic respect of using my name.

"So, no, 'I'm sorry I hurt you,' isn't good enough. It wasn't an accident. It wasn't like you stepped on my fucking toe. And you're not even really sorry you hurt me, if that was true it wouldn't have taken thirteen years for us to get here. If you were sorry because you hurt me, you'd have said so back when you were still doing it, or when you stopped doing it. You're sorry because you're realizing I'm not what you'd consider a good target. You're sorry because you feel guilty about kicking someone who was already down.

"Well, fuck you and fuck your sorry!" He sees Tony wince at that, and he looks like he wants to argue, but he still doesn't say anything. "I don't want or need you to be sorry because you just found out that I wasn't a good target. I am not some soft, broken little thing that needs your pity on top of all the shit you poured on me. I don't need you to feel bad about the fact that I'm pissed."

"What do you need?"

"I doubt you can give it to me."

"I can try."

"I need you to know it wasn't just fooling around. I can see you aren't willing to defend it, not to me, not right now, but I can also see this isn't going any deeper than not pissing me off so bad that I hit you. I need you to own what you did. I need you to look in the mirror and see who you were. I need you to know what you did was wrong. I need that switch to flip from 'McGee's fragile and can't take a joke,' to 'what I did was cruel.'"

Tony's still just listening, still not defending, and still not really looking him in the eye, but he does say, "And…" when Tim slows down, recognizing that the bullying isn't all of it.

"And I need you to be able to look at this, look at me, and not freak out about it. Any other day you'd be cutting on me because I'm outside your definition of comfortable and you don't know how to just let it lie. You're not looking me in the eye, and it's not because you're ashamed, it's because you don't know how to handle the fucking eyeliner."

Tony shrugs, and Tim watches him, looking deep, trying to see where to take this next.

"It's not just getting off on pain. It's not just that hurting other people made you feel better. You were the different kid, once, right? And it hurt. They hurt you for it? So you let them beat it out of you, and you turned it, and started to try and beat it out of everyone else around you. Just like you flipped that story, you flipped who you were? Well, fuck that, too. You don't try to get to make me into another version of you. You don't get to try to beat my differences into submission to make you feel better.

"That's why, really, you flipped out when you walked in on me and Abby. Because everyone has to be like you. Because you've got no sense of yourself in a vacuum. There's no Tony there, there's just a mirror showing different images of what everyone else expects and it freaks you the fuck out every time you run into someone who really is a person.

"Well, guess what, here I am, a real person. I always was. And I'm done hiding it to make you feel more comfortable. I'm done taking shit, from you or anyone else. This is me. I'm edging toward forty. I'm a cop and a poet and a writer and a husband and father. I've mastered more fields than you've ever dabbled at. I'm successful in one that's hard on your soul and another that requires you to be the one guy out of a hundred thousand who puts the words on the page that people want to read. And yeah, I had to work at both of them to get there, because it wasn't easy, and I was clumsy and awkward at anything I ever tried besides computers, but I put the work in and got there. And you've mocked all of it, every step of the fucking way. In less than a year, I'll run my own department and I'll have sold more than five hundred thousand copies of my books. I've got money, talent, brains, the adoration of a beautiful wife, and a gorgeous baby girl. I like makeup, kilts, leather, games, computers, kinky sex you probably can't even imagine, and all the boring, normal, everyday life stuff that you can. All of it is real, all of it is me, and you don't get to define me or try to force me into a little box that makes you feel comfortable."

He's breathing fast, staring hard at Tony, challenging him, daring him to say something, give him an excuse to take this up to a fist fight, but all Tony does is nod and say, "Okay, Tim."

"Go get his bag for me, and head home. I'll bring him in, and see you in the morning."

Tony nods, heads back to Gibbs' car, grabs his go bag, and hands it back.


	4. Stakeout

Abby and Gibbs are looking at him when he heads in. Abby speaks first. "That sounded like the single least satisfying telling off you've ever done."

Tim nods, slowly and sits down next to her.

"It doesn't work if he doesn't fight."

Gibbs and Abby both acknowledge that.

"I put your go bag in my office. Looks like I'm taking you in tomorrow."

"No problem."

Tim's not really paying any attention to anything, just letting the feeling of right this second, and how… disappointing it is, rush though him.

He'd only fantasized about telling Tony off fifty million times those first five years, and a good six or seven million times in the five years after that, and maybe only ten or twenty times in the last three years, and this, just… wasn't it.

"Gibbs, you good on stairs now?" he asks. Because he doesn't know what to do to get whatever it is he wants out of Tony, but he does know that his office isn't the most comfortable sleeping environment ever.

"Yeah."

"You want our guest room?"

Gibbs shakes his head. "I'm good downstairs."

"You sure?" Abby asks. "Bed's bigger upstairs, more comfortable."

"It's quieter downstairs," he says with a smile.

Abby giggles a little at that. Tim sees it, flashes him a, _I'm so done with you_ look at Gibbs, rolls his eyes, sees Gibbs grin at him, trying to jolly him, rolls his eyes again, not angry so much as just… whatever the hell this is… and heads upstairs.

* * *

Yeah, he would have rather taken the beating.

Hell, he still might rather take the beating.

Just because Tim didn't say it, doesn't mean that 'Go home, think about what an asshole you are, and we'll get back to this tomorrow,' wasn't clear when Tim sent him off.

Fuck.

* * *

What's Murphy's Law? Everything that can go wrong, will, at the worst possible time?

Something like that. Because it's not like he isn't dealing with enough of this shit with Ziva right now. Not like he's not constantly having to think about it with their marriage counselor.

No, toss on another heaping serving of not being good enough for the people you love. Bring it on, more the merrier, right?

* * *

Normally, if he was having this bad of a day, he'd go home, listen to some music with Ziva, share dinner with her, probably not talk, not about why he's in a funk, they're both better off with just being quiet about it. But they'd talk about something else, like the book she's reading and how it got turned into a movie. Or how the book and the movie were different and why and how it works. Or a case. Or office gossip. Or the family. Or politics… or something.

And it'd get his mind off of it.

And she'd snuggle into him, and he'd hold her close, remember that he's loved, and that he loves, and there's a peaceful place in his heart and home and that's her.

But she's not home. She's with Draga, in the bus, watching the monitor.

And right now, they may be doing better, but they aren't back to good yet, and she's probably not going to be wildly sympathetic to the idea that Tim's really overreacting. Let alone to the idea that he doesn't deserve this level of comeback for the years of crap he laid on McGee.

* * *

Normally, he'd go to Gibbs' place if he was having this bad of a day and Ziva was working.

But Gibbs is at Tim's. (Probably whacking himself upside the back of the head. Not like he doesn't know Gibbs well enough to see him feeling guilty, too.)

And if Gibbs is already feeling guilty, he's sure as hell not going to be particularly good on the comfort front.

* * *

Normally, if this was before Ziva, and Gibbs was busy, he'd go pick up a woman at a bar. Have a few drinks, flirt, let her body get him out of his head, remind him that people want him, that he is pretty and fun and…

Shit.

And exactly what Tim just said to him, and what the counselor's been hinting at, trying to get him to say for himself. (So far with less than successful results.)

* * *

He's fairly sure Jimmy would just look at him and say, "Karma's a bitch."

Or maybe something about that part of why you don't pull the kind of crap he did on Tim is because you don't know, you never know, not really, what the back story is and who the guy you're pulling that crap on is.

He's fairly sure that some of the guys who used to pick on him back in boarding school would have felt really bad about it if they knew his mom had just died.

They wouldn't have laughed so hard about him loving old movies if they knew why.

* * *

His apartment is empty. There's nothing here but him and space and quiet and thoughts the he's had more than often enough and doesn't really like.

He pours himself a drink and shoots it down. Then pours another, and goes slowly. He watches about ten minutes of seven different movies, none of them catching him.

* * *

The other thing about apologizing is this: just because you rationally know that if you mean it, you need to lie down and take what's coming, doesn't mean you like it.

And Tony doesn't.

And just because you mean it, doesn't mean the other person is in enough control to be fair or even-handed or anything other than so fucking pissed they can't see straight. He literally just did this with Ziva, just let his own anger and fear go spewing around, hurting her just because he was so hurt he couldn't deal with it.

And just because, rationally, he knows this is part of what Tim's doing, doesn't mean that it's not pissing him off, too.

And he especially doesn't like the fact that Tim's taking him to task for things that are over. Things he can't change or do anything about. He's already made the change he needed to make to be a better man. He hasn't pulled any of this shit in years.

Sure, Tim and Jimmy have this being a good man thing down pat. Sure, they're great at it and it doesn't take any work, and they can just be married and kind and useful and all the rest of that shit. Great.

Doesn't mean it's easy for him.

Doesn't mean he doesn't work at it every goddamn day.

Doesn't mean he doesn't see dozens of openings from Tim and Draga and Jimmy and everyone else, and physically forces himself to not take them.

Doesn't mean the eyeliner doesn't make him squirm, the kilt isn't creepy, and the fucking collar, does Tim know what the fuck he's saying when he wears that out? Really? Is he going to make that big a deal of it?

He never says half, hell, a third of what that stuff makes him think, not anymore. Won't say it because it's mean and because he's working hard at not being that guy anymore, because that guy was an asshole, and it doesn't fucking matter if he's trying because apparently the last two years are just shit to Tim, and what matters is what came before, what can't be changed, and being sorry about it isn't enough.

It's not enough to regret what he did, no, Tim wants him to regret who he is, and that's just not fucking happening.

* * *

"Cute nails," Tony says as he steps into the bus.

Tim glances away from the monitor and glares at him. "Seven seconds. Even I thought you could go longer than that."

Tony sits next to him, staring at his nails for a few seconds and then looking at the monitor. "That's why you've still got the polish on, right? Trying to push my buttons and make me say something about it. Why waste time?"

"Yep. Passive aggressive argument technique. Good way to spot someone who spent most of his life getting bullied. I was thinking you had enough self-control that it wouldn't be, literally, the first thing out of your mouth."

"Yeah, well, I've got a reputation as a sadistic asshole to keep up, so I can't let little things like politeness get in the way."

Tim stares at him, seeing that Tony's ready to fight. Whatever happened last night after he went home has him fired up now. _Good. _"What, you think that wasn't accurate? Think you don't deserve that?" He switches into a babying voice. "Did I hurt your poor little feelings?"

"Fuck you. And no. I don't deserve that! I haven't pulled any crap on you or anyone else in years. No matter how much you're begging for it."

Tim snorts at that. "You still get off on it. You still want it."

"That's not fair. Doesn't matter if I still like it. I don't _do_ it anymore."

"You think I give a fuck about fair right now?" Tim says, shaking his head. "Your regularly scheduled mild-mannered Tim who cares about stuff like fair is _gone_ right now. I don't give a flying fuck about fair. Yeah, it's been years. Thanks. Your noble restraint in not bullying me is noted. The fact that you have to restrain yourself proves you're still an asshole and you're still a sadist."

Tony's glaring now, fire in his eyes. "So, if I'm such a flaming sadistic asshole, why the fuck are we friends? I mean, what the hell does that say about _you_? That you chose me to spend time with, you invite me to your home, that you picked me to stand up with you at your wedding, or agreed to stand up with me at mine. You telling me that's why you wear the collar, that you like it, you want it, you need to be put down? Just can't own up to it or say it out loud, gotta loop it around your neck and have Abby beat it into you?"

Tim pushes back in his chair so fast that it squeaks. "You do not say one word about that or I will beat the ever-living fucking shit out of you! You… No!"

Tony snorts at him. "I worked vice. I know how that game gets played. Getting picked on gets you all hot and bothered? Is that why you like me?"

"I don't want it or need it and I have _never_ asked for it from you or anyone else and... And that's not what the collar means. And if you ever even hint that Abby's ever... Just... No!" Tim's staring at him, eyes wide and blazing, mad beyond words for a second and then pulls it back in enough to say, "How long do you think we've been friends?"

He can see Tony thinking, trying to remember when he started. "What, November 2002? Something like that, right?"

"That's how long we've worked together."

"Yeah."

Tim's eyes are cold. "That's not how long we've been friends. It wasn't until after Jeanne that you even started to try to treat me like a human."

"I treated you the same way I treated everyone else."

"So? That doesn't make it any better. Being an asshole to everyone doesn't make you any less of an asshole. That makes you _more_ of an asshole."

"Fine, when do you think we became friends?"

"Like I said, you started to treat me like a person after Jeanne. Wasn't until we got Ziva back that you actually started treating me with any real respect. Think about it, I wrote a novel, didn't tell you about it. Got it published, still didn't tell you about it. Unless Abby or Kate or Ziva was there, I didn't volunteer any real information about myself, and only told you little bits and pieces when I couldn't get you to stop bugging me. Is that how friends act? You're going on and on about your astronaut costume and trick or treating, did I say anything about my Halloweens?"

"No."

"You think I came from some alternative universe where people don't have Halloween? You're telling me that horrible lie about you and the Rockette, did I tell you anything about my first time? You think I'd never had sex? Think I hadn't lost my virginity? It's been thirteen years; you've never heard my first time story, and you're _never_ going to, because you'd mock the shit out of it. You and Kate are joking about pot. I tell you I didn't like drugs. You just assume that means I'd never tried any, so you smirk, and don't ask, and I don't tell you anything about that again until we're on a triple date with Jimmy and Breena. And guess what, you still don't have the whole story on that one, either. Sound friendly? Is that a caring, intimate relationship to you? You're telling me about your glorious and probably seventy percent bullshit sports career. I say nothing. You think I never played sports?"

"Well, yes, on that last one."

"I played baseball, football, and wrestled. Never for long and I was never really good at it, but I played. And I never told you. Hell, you didn't know I was the team mascot at MIT until I'd been out of school for a decade, and the only reason you ever found that out was because we ran into Stuey. And you find that out and you act like it's the funniest thing ever."

"You dancing around in a beaver costume is the funniest thing ever."

"Yeah, it was, because I was _good_ at it. But that's not why you thought it was funny. You thought it deserved to be mocked, as opposed to something I spent time planning, had to audition for, and came up with a routine that beat out the forty other guys who tried out for it."

"I didn't know that."

"No, you didn't. Because you didn't ask and I didn't tell. Because we were just barely friends then. You just thought it was something goofy and girly that I should be vaguely embarrassed about because real guys, real _men_, play on the team, they don't dance around and rile up the fans."

"They don't."

Tim's fairly sure the last time he was looking at Tony like this, he was shaking up the over easy eggs and two seconds away from smacking him silly. "I'm a good father. I'm a great husband. I'm a great lover. I'm a good cop. I'm a good son, a decent brother, and a good friend. That's _all_ the man anyone ever needs to be. I don't have to be John Wayne or Gibbs or your dad or whatever the fuck you've got labeled as 'man' in your head to qualify.

"You're being just like my dad. You always were. You look at me and see some sort of soft, girly, _thing _that needs to be toughened up and turned into a 'man.' Newsflash, asshole, just like I'm not actually shorter than you are, I've got just as much dick as you do, and I've actually made a person with it, so I'm ahead on the points when it comes to the 'man' contest."

"I am not your dad!" Tony's horrified by that.

"Like fuck you aren't. You just don't have the balls to put some real hate into it. You've got this idea of who I'm supposed to be, and you've done everything you could to make me into it. And every time I wander off your straight and narrow path you either mock me, slap me down, or flip out and have an existential crisis over it.

"I mean, who the fuck cares if I want to dress up in a fuzzy, blue elf costume to impress a girl? I liked it. She would have liked it if she had ever seen it. So what business of yours was it? Where do you get off saying anything, at all, about it, let alone flashing it all over the bullpen, showing Ziva, and getting me caught by Gibbs?"

"It was fucking weird!"

"That's exactly what would have bugged him about it. It's weird and girly, 'cause real men don't dress up and play, let alone sew, and I had to sew to make it. Well, fuck you and fuck him. I am weird. I've always been weird. I was a weird kid and a weird teen and weird in college and I'm still fucking weird. I will always be weird. Same with girly. The fact that I learned to blend so I didn't get the shit beaten out of me on a regular basis doesn't make me any less weird, it just makes me a survivor."

"A survivor, really? Because of hard words? Fuck that, Tim, quit crying. My mom died! My dad sent me away two months later! Wendy, you remember joking about her leaving? You were right, she left me, at the altar. My whole making sure we got there on time thing doesn't seem so funny now, does it? Wanted to make sure Ziva was really there, that she didn't wander off, because Wendy did. So, yeah, you got teased, and yeah, I didn't use your name for years, get over it. They were just jokes, it didn't fucking matter, and you need a thicker skin."

"Fuck you, you whiny little cunt!" He saw Tony's eyes jerk wide at that, but didn't slow down to acknowledge it. "Oh, my mom died. My fiancee left me. My dad ignored me. Boo fucking hoo, asshole. You are not the only one who ever had a sucky childhood.

"My mom died…" Tim says with menacing sarcasm. "Your mom loved you every single minute she could! And if Jethro's right about them still being out there, she still loves you. She loved you when she found out she was pregnant and you were probably the last thing she ever thought about. You got hugs and kisses and petting and trips to the city to see movies, and more love and more petting. You were her special little boy and you got everything you were supposed to get out of a mom from her. And I'm sorry you only got eight years, but at least you got eight fucking years!

"I was six, Tony, _six_, when they decided I wasn't tough enough. How fucking tough does a six-year-old need to be? Your mom died, she left you, and you miss her, so fucking what? My mom betrayed me! She let him rip me to shreds. She knew about it, approved of it, and never did a single thing to protect me from him!

"You were her little prince, perfect exactly the way you were, loved for who you were, cherished because you were hers. I was the _thing_ that needed to be changed. I was too soft, too shy, too asthmatic, too bookish, and I had to be beaten into Navy shape and neither of them cared how much it hurt because I wasn't good enough the way I was."

Those words break through Tony's anger, and he takes a deep breath, figuring it out. Yeah, Tim's pissed at him, that's real, and genuine and true, but this right here, this is not about him. He's here and convenient and a direction Tim can take to let the real anger out. "Tim."

"Your dad ignored you. Fuck that and fuck you for thinking that justifies anything! I would have given my left arm to be ignored. Being ignored was my definition of a good day! Because if he was ignoring me he wasn't using his tongue to make me feel worthless, he wasn't telling me that nothing I ever did would ever be good enough, and he wasn't threatening to hurt me, and not just these pussy little psychic wounds that have left me with nightmares twenty years later, but real, tangible, bleeding from my anus, gaping maw where my dick was, mutilated, hurt. So, don't you ever tell me about how tough it was to get sent off at the age of nine, because by the time I was nine I would have paid good money to get sent off."

"Tim." Doesn't even slow him down, the words keep pouring out.

"My fiancee left. Screw that. Oh no, Anthony DiNozzo, God's gift to women got dumped! Because no one's ever had to deal with that before. For all the shit you've pulled with women, you deserve to be dumped by every one of them you've ever loved! Jeanne alone is so much bad karma you need to get down on your fucking knees and beg God's forgiveness every single solitary fucking day just to hope Ziva stays with you for another month."

"Tim." He puts his hand on Tim's shoulder, but Tim jerks away from him, still not slowing down.

"Your past doesn't matter. Yours sucked. Mine sucked. Ziva's got both of us outclassed on suckage by a mile. Gibbs' sucked. It doesn't matter!

"All that matters is now and how we treat each other. And you failed, fuckhead. You failed for thirty years. You failed until you were forty-five and right now you're only holding onto not failing by your goddamn fucking fingernails!

"That's it! I don't get a pass for a fucked-up childhood and you don't either. No one does. Here. Now. Not making everyone feel worse. That's all that matters." Tim's eyes are wild, and he's breathing hard, chest pumping, and Tony's honestly not sure if he's about to get the shit beaten out of him, or if Tim's let it go.

A very long, very silent, very on edge moment passes while Tim keeps staring at Tony, and Tony tries to figure out if Tim's going to jump him.

"You done?"

Tim's glaring at him, but nothing else comes out, so Tony pulls him into a hug. He's stiff, and pulling back, but Tony doesn't let him go.

"What are you doing?"

"It's called a hug."

Tim's still struggling, but not hard, a lot of the fire burned out over the last few minutes.

"Let go of me."

"Nope."

Tim closes his eyes, puts his hands on Tony's shoulders, and firmly pushes him back while stepping in the opposite direction. "Let go, or I will hit you!"

Tony does.

"I. Am. Done. Taking. Your. Shit. You not listening to me. You not respecting my decisions, that's shit."

"It's not shit, Tim. It's just… proof."

"Proof?"

"I'm still here, and I'm not going anywhere. You can't yell at him: he's far away, and it wouldn't end well. You won't scream at her, though I don't know why. Fighting Jimmy or Ziva doesn't really touch it, because you're not angry at them. Beating yourself up doesn't work because… because it's not what you need. You're hurt enough, more pain isn't the answer. I don't know what's going on with you and Gibbs. You either can't stand it, or it's really not her fault, so you won't yell at Penny. Kate's dead, can't yell at her. I'm all that's left, so I'll take it. I know you're pissed at me, and I know it's real, and I know I deserve some of this, but it's not my fault your parents are bastards. That's not on me.

"But I am your friend, and yeah, I sucked at it for a decade, but I am your friend now, and I was as much of a friend as I could have been before, and if I'm the only target you've got left that scratches that itch, have at it. I'm here. I'll take it. You need to call me a cunt, do it. You need to swing at me… Well, let's get Ziva and Draga back so someone is watching that locker… But take your best shots once they get here."

Tim sits down, hard, back against the far wall of the bus.

Tony takes a step toward him, but Tim shakes his head, and Tony abides it.

He sits down, gingerly, at the monitor, and goes back to watching it, very carefully not keeping his eyes on Tim, intentionally not seeing if he's crying or cursing or whatever it is he's doing over there.

But after about twenty minutes, he feels the change, and, though he doesn't look over, he can imagine that little look up, close eyes, lick lips, thing Tim does when he's stressed.

"I know it's been years and you've been doing better."

"Good."

"Probably should have let that out a long time ago, too."

Tony nods, still not looking away from the monitor, but completely sure that thirteen years of not saying anything probably had a lot to do with how hot Tim got.

"You're right, you don't deserve all of that. And I am sorry your mom died and your dad left and Wendy… Pain is pain, my pain doesn't make yours less or vice versa, and comparing it sucks. I'm sorry."

Tony shrugs, still looking at the monitor. "I know I was a jerk. I know I hurt people. I _know_. And I know I went after you longer, harder, and more often than anyone else, because you always just took it. And, yeah, I like it. I like the power. I like the control. I like the fear. I like the fact that it makes other people laugh. I like that they like me because I can do it. I like all of it, and I always will.

"But I'm not doing it anymore. I don't even own superglue these days. And, God, you have no idea how many pranks go through my head on a given day. Especially for you and Jimmy. You two are just so fucking easy. And I don't do it."

"Thanks," Tim says, dry, sarcastic. "Good to know you're restraining yourself."

"It is, because this is something I'm always going to want, always going to need, but I don't always have to do.

"If I was still Catholic, I guess they'd call it a come-to-Jesus moment, but since I'm not, since this was part of the conversion, I guess it's a run-away-from-Jesus moment, but… But it's not really different. Not really, God's God wherever you are, but… But you remember how thinking it is almost as bad as doing it? The thought is a sin, the intention is a sin, doing it's a sin, and on and on?"

Tim nods, he remembers that not just that from catechism, but also George Carlin's routine on it, though he doesn't know why Tony's bringing it up.

"Doesn't work that way for Jews. The only thing that matters is what you do. You're Catholic, there's no reason not to do it once you've thought it, you've already taken the hit, so you might as well get the pleasure, too."

Tim's shaking his head.

"What?"

"I don't know. Didn't know you even still cared about ideas like sin."

"Not as an adult, not much, but as a kid, yeah, and that set the pattern."

"Okay."

"And it's… easier, to think that the only thing that matters is what we do."

"Good for you." Tim says, very dry, very sarcastic, very much thinking this was the sort of crap you were supposed to figure out at about the age of fifteen, and he's not feeling particularly impressed by Tony telling him this.

"You're still mad."

"Yeah, I am. I know it's been years. I know you're doing better. I'm glad you're doing better. But I am still mad."

"It's okay."

"I don't need your permission to be mad."

"Nope. You're doing that just fine on your own. Just… I get it."

"Wonderful. Take your break. I've got the monitors." Tim stands up and heads to the screens, staring at them.

Tony does notice his face is red and puffy, and his eyes are bright green. He realizes that he didn't hear anything, not even hard breathing, and that he didn't think it was possible to cry without making _any_ noise. And it hits him that if Tim can do that, can shut down any sound that might attract attention that he's probably had way too much practice at trying not to get caught crying.

That was probably part of not being tough enough. He probably never mastered shutting down the ability to cry (like Tony did) so he learned to hide it.

Tony lets out a long, slow breath, and spends a few minutes walking around, trying to burn off some of the jittery from the fight.

For a half hour, all of Tim's turn, neither of them say anything.

When he's done, Tim gets up, heads to the far end of the bus, where the coffee maker is, and gets them both a cup.

Tony looks up at him, when he hands over the cup and sits down next to him.

"I'm still going to tease you about the skirt and the eyeliner." Tim just stares at him. "I can't not make fun of that. Still going to call you McWhatever. That's just who I am, and if you're my friend, if this giving each other what we need thing works both ways, you'll accept that I need that. That I have to have that edge. But you don't have to just take it and smile. You're allowed to fight back."

"Fuck off and die, asshole." Tim says with a grim smile.

"God, you're _mean_ when you're angry! Flipping me off works just fine and is a whole lot closer to what I'm doing to you."

Tim snorts at that. "It's wonderful that you've lived in such a sheltered world that you think this is mean. I haven't even gotten close to mean. I can't be mean to you. The power dynamics aren't there for it. You're not afraid of me. I don't control anything you hold dear. Your job, your loves, your life, your comfort, none of it is in my hands. All I've got is your affection for me, and that's not nearly enough."

"It's enough, Tim. I hate the fact that you're so mad at me, and I am genuinely sorry that I hurt you. I'm sorry I was an asshole, and I'm sorry you were a bad target for it, and I'm sorry it took this long to get this out and done. I'm sorry I can't make it better by wishing, and I'm sorry that I've ever done anything that makes you think I'm like your dad."

Tim nods, that had been a low blow, but it also wasn't just out of the blue. Can't be a low blow if there's no truth to it. "Anything girly pissed him off, got him yelling. And it's the same thing for you, the eyeliner or the nail polish or the kilt or the costumes. They set you off, too. You don't yell, but… Anything soft or girly makes you uncomfortable."

Tony shrugs. "It just hits me wrong. Maybe it didn't always. Maybe that's the armor left in place from being the kid who cried a lot because I did get shipped off to boarding school when I was nine and my mom had died two months earlier and it was 1977 and they didn't have school counselors and we didn't talk about stuff like that. But it hits my buttons and makes me feel squirmy, and I handle that by making jokes."

"Yeah. _I know._ Just about everything about me makes you feel squirmy."

"That's not true."

"It's true enough."

"No, it's not. _You_ don't make me feel squirmy. Some of the things you do, do."

"That's not how it works. You are a bully, whether or not you're doing it, you're a bully because it's who you are and what you like. I am a geek. I don't just do geeky things. I am a geek. I could go completely normal, whatever the hell that is, and I'll still be a geek because that's me. The things that make you squirmy are ME."

"Tim…"

"The Snow Elf costume. That hit your squirm button, right? I mean, you photoshopped my head on to Brainy Smurf and stuck it in the break room right after, and two weeks later, Ducky gave me the ears back saying, 'Timothy, you need to keep a better hold on these. Anthony seems to think it's amusing to put them on the bodies or Jimmy.'"

Tony tilts his head, acknowledging that. Palmer did fall asleep studying in the morgue one night, so he carefully slipped the ears on him, and got lots of pictures.

"That wasn't just something I put on for a day. That was me. I met a cute girl, who actually seemed kind of interested in me and liked to game. She invited me to a party and suggested we go as our characters. Cool, I was good with that. My character rocked. But I'm six one and back then something like one ninety. You can't just walk into a Halloween store and buy yourself a snow elf costume, especially not for a guy my size. So, hell, I'm in, I like games and costumes and hot cheerleaders, and sure I'm not cool and I don't look anything like the guys she works with, but I can learn to sew, and I can cos play, and I can get so into it, I'll blow her away. So I get a sewing machine, spend fifty hours on youtube learning how to sew and design costumes, design the damn thing, sew it, over and over and over because it is not nearly as easy as it should be to do that, and you take one look at it, and laugh. Ziva's telling me that she's feeling every ounce of respect she ever had for me oozing away because you decide she has to see it. And now you're telling me it's something I do, not who I am.

"That's who I am. The kilt, the tattoos, the games, the music, the writing, all of it is who I am. And if you've got to pretend that they're just hobbies or weird little side interests, then why are we friends?"

"Because you're my Probie." Tony sees Tim bristle at that, and says, quickly, "Just, let me get it all out. You're my partner. Because you can't be a clown without a straight man. Because Laurel needs Hardy and Holmes needs Watson. Because learning to deal with each other makes both of us better men. Because you always have my back and will slap me upside the back of the head when I need it. Because I like you, even if some things about you freak me out. I mean, I don't have to like everything about you. We aren't married. But, right now, I guess the bigger question is, why do _you_ think we're friends?"

Tim thinks about it for a much longer time that Tony did, and can see him getting nervous by it, but he's not rushing this, but he's not saying the first thought he had, _habit, _which was mean, and was mostly angry still coming out.

He sighs and says, "You never doubted me. And on things you think matter, you've always had my back. And you have occasionally provided a whack upside the back of the head, and forced me out of my shell when I needed it. And learning to deal with each other is making both of us better men. Sometimes you make me laugh. And I need men who approve of my work. There's a dad-shaped hole in my life, and you fill some of it."

"I can live with that."

"Okay."

Several more minutes go by, and another shift change. This time Tony's watching the monitors when he asks, "Do you actually like me?"

Tim shrugs. "I like things about you. I love you, if that helps."

"How does that work?"

"I don't know. I like Jimmy. It's easy to be with him, because I'm not constantly on guard, afraid I'll do or say something that'll flip him out or get me mocked. And I know you're not really that guy anymore, but you were for so long, that I can't really relax around you. I like the fact that you're getting better about it. But, you and I, it's not easy.

"I don't like how you treat people. I don't like the nicknames. I know you think of them as being affectionate, but it's an affectionate slap. Affectionate or not, it's still a slap. You need that, fine. Usually, I'm calm enough it doesn't bug me. But that doesn't mean I like it.

"I loathed the way you treated women. Hated the way you treated Kate. If it wasn't for the fact that it would have bugged her, I would have reported you for sexual harassment. And look, honestly, I'm glad Howard failed the practical part of the interview, because she was young and cute and green and trusting and I have no idea what you would have done with her.

"I have a daughter. I have a niece. And the fact that one of these days they're going to be out there with womanizers and misogynists like the guy you were scares the shit out of me, and that's nothing you can do anything about, too, but it's still there. I'm still aware of it. I still see that when I see you, and I know you aren't that guy anymore, but it's still there."

"Sex addict," Tony says quietly without looking away from the monitor.

Tim's eyes go wide and he looks away from the monitor for a second, to Tony, before going back to it, fast. "Huh?"

"Not sure if womanizer means something different, or if it's just an old term, but I'm a sex addict."

"Tony?"

"I like women. They make me feel good. Gibbs has a bad day, he drinks it away. You have a bad day, you shoot shit and get into fights. I have a bad day, I crave women. I need the external validation they give me. I don't get 'petted,' as you put it, often enough, I start to get itchy. Start thinking too much about what, if anything, is behind the mirrors. Part of taking so long to start things up with Ziva was about seeing if I could be on the wagon. Didn't like it much, especially before we were dating, because that's a lot of time alone with my thoughts and no one proving, over and over, that I'm good enough."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"That's why you were worried about looking."

Tony nods, shrugs a little, playing it off. "Ziva knows. Has known for a while. She's the one who gave me the words when I told her about how it worked. I didn't want her going into it blind. But, at least with girls, that's why I was always hunting down the next one. It was my fix. Daddy didn't want me. Wendy didn't want me. Well, all those other women did. Spent what should have been my honeymoon with her drunk off my ass and fucking anything that moved and somehow didn't get past that for five years. That's probably why 'no' would always stop me cold, but dead drunk didn't matter because as long as she was into me, I was getting what I needed from it."

"Oh."

"You just did that."

"I know. But, I don't know what to say to it."

"Don't have to say anything."

"I guess not."

Another shift change, this time Tim's watching the monitor, and Tony asks, "So, now what?"

Tim shrugs. "We go on. You need to call me McGeek, I'll take it, but you might not like what comes out after that."

"I can live with that. I'll lay off on the rest of it as much as I can. Won't always be able to do it, but I'll try."

"Okay."

"Okay."

"I'm still mad."

"I know. It's okay."

Tim nods.

Fourteen minutes later, when someone, a male someone, finally got to that locker, giving them both something else to do besides sit in a bus and stare at the monitors, they were both very relieved, and mad or not, they both did just fine at corralling the guy, getting him to the Navy Yard, interrogating him, and shutting down the case by dinnertime.

* * *

A/N: Okay, so what was that weirdness yesterday? Basically, one of the readers decided that she needed to leave me a comment on STAW about how annoyed she was at having to switch from Shards To A Whole to Shards in order to continue following the non-McPalmer story line and that I should have made the McPalmer lovers switch. (You can check the STAW comments and see what I'm talking about.)

And, I, well, I went bugfuck mad on that one.

And I let her know I was bugfuck mad.

And, well, as you've all noticed, I'm sort of *ahem* _pushing the edge_ on the M rating scale. And if someone, say a reader who got a somewhat rude response about being an ungrateful twat decided to report Shards for a terms of service violation... well, I wanted all of you to make sure you knew how to keep finding my stuff.

So, once more (since I'm deleting the PSA chapter) I will also be posting the non-McPalmer version on Archive Of Our Own. I use the same user name everywhere, so I'm easy to find.

One last bit of housekeeping, EarthDragon, if the last few chapters haven't cleared things up, feel free to shoot me a PM, I'm happy to talk about what's going on.


	5. Aftermath

"Well?" Abby asks as he heads into the house.

Tim shrugs, dropping onto the sofa next to her. "Remember telling me how during the toothpaste argument that you knew you were being insane, but you couldn't stop it?"

Abby nods.

He's got his embarrassed-as-hell look on his face. "I called him a whiny cunt for complaining about his mom dying."

"Oh God." She winces and puts and arm around him. "He hit you?"

"No. He should have." Tim sighs. "He hugged me. And I told him to stop. And he didn't. So then I made him stop. And he told me that since I was pissed at him, and could handle being pissed at him, he'd take all of it if that was what I needed to do."

"So, where are you now?" she asks, squeezing him a little tighter.

"You the two of us or you meaning me?"

"Both?"

"I'm… tired, embarrassed, still kind of angry, kind of sad, kind of hurt, just…" He looks away from her, shaking his head.

"Us? Detente? There's Sane Tim, in the back of my head, who knows it's been years, who knows he's doing better, who is fully aware that I said some god-awful hurtful things to him, that, maybe weren't called for, especially not this many years since he was seriously busting my balls, and he responded by hugging me. And Sane Tim knows that Tony's getting all of my angry at him and probably a good third of angry at my mom and maybe a tenth of angry at my dad, and half of angry at Ender, and that it's not rational, and it's not cool. Tony's not a punching bag, and I shouldn't use him as one, especially not for anything he didn't personally earn. But Sane Tim wasn't driving the bus. Angry, pissed-off, acid-tongued, sarcastic, cusses-like-a-sailor Tim was in charge, and he's not a nice guy.

"Eventually I spewed enough angry all over the place that Sane Tim could take over again, so, we're… working together. And got talking about some important things, but… It's tense. More tense than usual."

Abby nods at him. She knows Tim relaxed with Tony is not the same thing as Tim relaxed with her or with Jimmy and Breena or Gibbs.

"I told him I don't like the nicknames. He told me that's something he needs to do, but I don't have to just take it. I don't know if that's him working on making me fight it out when I'm actually pissed and not just shove it down, or if he likes the fight, or he doesn't think I'll do it, or he just can't stop doing it, so that's that."

"All of the above probably. Not like he just met you or anything. And I'm sure by now he knows that you need to let off steam more often than you do."

"Probably. Guess we'll know for sure when I see how it happens next."

He hears Kelly start crying and nods toward her room.

"Go het her," Abby says, "I'll get your dinner out, both of you can eat, and we'll talk more."

"Sounds good."

* * *

"He asked if I like him," Tim says halfway through a BLT. He's sitting on the sofa, next to Abby and Kelly, eating his dinner while Kelly eats hers. (Abby already ate.)

"What did you say?" Abby answers, looking up from babbling at Kelly. He didn't talk for the first half of his dinner, and she knows not to push him. It'll come out eventually. So she focused on Kelly, talking and playing with her (as much playing as you can do with a nursing baby) waiting for him to be ready to say more.

"I had to think about it. I told him there were things about him I like. And that I love him. But…" He shakes his head and takes another bite, and Abby waits for him to get his thoughts together. "He hit me on the collar, said maybe I needed to be cut down, bullied, that I liked it, that I was asking for it, that that's why I was wearing it. That I couldn't say it out loud, so I wore it around my neck and had you beat it into me."

Given Tim's history with sexual near-violence, Abby knew that'd be an issue for him. "How'd you do with that?"

"I think I was incoherently shrieking at that. Whatever the verbal equivalent is of the way they curse in comics with all the punctuation marks on the page. I think I was doing that. My vision went kind of fuzzy and my mouth was on auto pilot, and eventually I pulled myself back together enough to get off that topic, but, yeah, wasn't pretty."

"Before or after you called him a cunt?"

"Before."

"Great."

"Oh yeah. But, a while later he asked if I like him, and I had to think about it, and I was thinking about that, specifically. Do I need to be bullied? Did I want it? Was I asking for it? I mean, I put up with it for a decade, and yeah, most of it was just piddly crap, but not all of it was, and I never fought back, I never said anything, I didn't leave. I just let him steamroller me. Why? What did I get out of it?"

"A guy who hugs you when you're being a flaming lunatic?"

Another sigh, and a little head tilt acknowledging that. "Well, yeah. But was he the guy who would have done that five years ago?"

"Yeah," she smiles gently at him, "he was. He'd have given you grief about it from now until the end of time, but yeah, he was that guy, he's always been that guy. Surface Tony's a jackass, but deep Tony's got your back, and you know it."

"Yeah." Because he does, and Tim does know it. Known it since Tony didn't doubt him about Benedict, since he said to him, "First time I shot someone, I wet my pants…" And then showed up to take him out, try to get him out of his head that night. It didn't work. It was more or less the exactly wrong thing to do for him, but Tony was _trying_,which was more than anyone else did that night.

"You tell him you knew it?"

"Yes, I did. I told him I loved him, but I didn't like everything about him. He told me he liked me, but some of the things I do freak him out. That got to me, too, because a lot of the things I do that freak him out are the kinds of things that made my dad yell. And he's not… bad… not really."

"Honey, your scale on bad's kinda skewed. Tony's a jerk when it comes to you doing something he considers outside of normal. He's just not a psychopath."

"Fine. But… It's a lot of the same triggers. I mean, I know that, that's why I put the makeup and the kilt on, I knew it'd bug him. Knew it'd stick his head in that squirmy sort of place where he has to mock it to make himself feel okay. That's the reason I still had the nail polish on this morning, and it worked perfectly. First thing he said to me was, 'Cute nails.'"

"So, he showed up ready to fight."

"Yeah. And after last night… I mean, that's what I wanted. That's what I was setting up. I wanted the fight. Wanted to rage at someone I was pissed at, wanted the chance to let it out at someone who deserved it. And, I guess he's the closest thing I had."

She nods at that, letting him think, letting him process.

His eyes come back to hers after a minute. "You take a lot of crap when you went goth?"

"Sure," she says with a quick nod of her head. "We all do. You're not really a goth until someone calls you out on it. I dyed my hair, painted my eyes, headed downstairs, and Aunt Gert looked at me and said, 'Oh, Lord, honey! Now why would you want to do something like that to yourself? You were so pretty. Don't go making yourself ugly just because you're sad.' And that was her being kind. Got a lot of less kind words."

"Yeah." He holds up his hands, nails still perfect matte black. "Why should this be a trigger? So, I'm not a native of the DiNozzo-boarding-school-jock-frat-boy-man-tribe? So what? He's not my dad. Not like my being weird makes him look bad. My being weird or femme or a geek affects him in no tangible way, at all."

"Are you really asking that, or are you more just setting up the point where you can admit how disappointing it is that someone you care that much about is bugged by you being weird? That, as you said, things you do freak him out."

Deep sigh, eyes close, head dropping back against the back of the sofa for a moment. "Both. More the latter probably."

"For the former, why nail polish or dyed black hair, or gay or trans or punk or goth or geek or anything that marks you as outside the mainstream matters is just that it does. We're humans, and most of us are wired to be uncomfortable around people who aren't part of our own little self-identified group of similar people. It's just part of us. Live or die by the tribe, so we're hardwired for it."

"You're not like that. You never were. I mean, you're not warm or fuzzy to new people in the lab, but I've never seen you cut on someone for being different, or for being normal. Our first date, I was practically the poster boy for 'normal' and you didn't give me a cold shoulder for it."

She smiles at the compliment. "Never had the chance to learn the whole hate/fear different thing. Grew up with deaf parents. Got used to being different before I knew what different was."

He popped the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth and then gently squeezed her shoulder. "I think it's just you. Just part of who you are, and the love inside of you shining out all over the place."

That got an even bigger smile, and, once he was done chewing, a kiss.

"He said some of the things I do freak him out, and I said, those aren't things I do, that's who I am, and… yeah," he closes his eyes, then opens them slowly, "it hurts. Never got the petting I needed from Daddy, so I stuck around and took Tony's crap for a decade, hoping for any scrap of approval I could get, and let him think that treating me like that was okay."

"Really?" She doesn't look like she believes that narrative.

He shakes his head a little. "No. Yes. Sort of? I'm swinging back in the other direction right now. Going from too-mad-it's-all-on-him to it's-all-my-fault."

"So, how about we get you back into the middle ground. Tony was a jerk. He's a whole lot less of a jerk now, but he's still something of a jerk and always will be. You are allowed to be pissed at him for being a jerk. It's okay to take him to task for doing things to you you don't like. Despite his jerkishness, you love him, because you know, under the jerk is someone who always has your back, and who may not be a natural at being a good guy, but he's trying awfully hard to be. He's your friend. You don't like everything about him and he doesn't like everything about you and that's fine for both of you, and it probably hurts both of you that neither of you is completely okay with the other one."

Tim shrugs at that. He'll get back there sooner or later. That's more or less his default setting for Tony, and he'll get back to the habit of being there eventually.

He sips his drink, and Abby switches Kelly to the other side. For a moment, only soft suckling noises fill their living room. Tim strokes Kelly's head, looking forward to his own baby snuggle time.

"So, he doesn't like you being weird. What don't you like about him?"

He glances at her, curious. "Thought you knew that."

"I do, just, drawing some lines."

He shakes his head. "He doesn't like it when I do things for myself that make him feel squirmy. I don't like it when he does things to other people to make them feel bad. It's not a parallel. He doesn't like the fact that parts of my existence are uncomfortable to him. I don't like that in an effort to make himself feel better, he's got to cut on me or slap me down. I don't like that he does that to other people, because it makes him feel better about himself.

"It's not he likes classic rock and I like jazz and we both can just sort of ignore it. I like costumes. Me in a costume makes him feel weird. He laughs at me about it because, especially if he can get other people to laugh, too, that makes him comfortable again. I don't like him laughing at me, because it makes me feel uncomfortable about being in the costume I liked three seconds earlier."

Abby nods at that, and sighs a bit. "Sounds dead on. And I guess you're right, it's not a parallel."

"He doesn't like how my existence makes him feel. I don't like how he treats other people to make himself feel better again. Neither of those things are under my control."

"No, they aren't."

"And when we were fighting, something that should have been under my control, me, and how I react to him, wasn't. There were a few minutes there where Sane Tim completely checked out. Not even lurking in the back of my head, watching. I was just, rage, fury screaming. Both you and he were saying that maybe I needed to 'let it out' more often, but… I know why I don't let go like that, not often. I could feel it, the rage, the kind of anger my dad aimed at me when I ripped up the Annapolis letter, those words. And… And Angry Tim's screaming because he's angry and Sane Tim's screaming because I'm acting like the Admiral and…" He shakes his head.

Abby leans against him, kissing his shoulder. "You're not being him just because you're angry. Even if you're yelling at someone. You threaten Tony?"

"I told him I'd beat the ever living shit out of him if he even so much as ever hinted again that the collar meant I let you beat me."

"Ah." She looks quite a bit less happy about that.

"Yeah." He's got a chagrined look on his face. "Told you, completely insane."

"So, you didn't so much go off the reservation as ride into town, set fire to it, hang all the residents up in trees by their ankles, and then mosey on off having stolen all the chickens?"

"Pissed in the well on my way out, too."

"Wow."

"Yeah," he sounds half-sad and half-tired by that.

"Well, part of the idea of not bottling it up for decades at a time is so that you don't go completely bat-shit insane when you finally do let go."

"Part of not doing it for decades at a time is knowing bat-shit insane is in there and not wanting to let it out. That's always been a balancing act. I know there's darkness and violence in there. That's part of being a cop, that I like the idea of being a weapon in the service of justice. That's the gun and the badge and the… the right channel. The right way to let it out.

"That's part of bootcamp, ya know? It's a way to let it out. That it doesn't always have to be stuffed down and hidden. That I can own my violence and not just keep it buried under that mountain of mild-mannered, takes-everything, forgives-everything, kind, gentleness.

"That I can still be a good person, kind and gentle and respectful, and still have that darkness and force in there. Like, I've been inching in the right direction, getting better at integrating both facets of my personality, and then I just blew it way the hell up."

"Did you hit him?"

"No."

"Were you close?"

His eyes narrow as he tries to remember what his body was doing during the fight. But he's not sure. Just like Sane Tim checked out, his awareness of anything besides the way he was feeling, what Tony was doing (he can tell you every move Tony made) and what he was saying, is gone. "I don't think so. Don't remember my hands in fists or anything."

"Okay. Nothing got blown the hell up. Keep part of yourself buried for that long, you're gonna have issues when you start to let it out. And you didn't ever really let it out, did you?"

He shakes his head, self-preservation meant he never let go on the Admiral. And after him, nothing else ever seemed worth blowing up over. Just lots of little things that all got buried. And some big ones.

"Doesn't mean you've got to stop working on integrating, just means you've got to keep working on it.

"Tim, you are a survivor of abuse. You're just getting to dealing with it. You are going to have times where you go a bit bonkers because of it. And no one expects you to have really good control when it comes to your triggers, not anytime soon. And Tony especially should have known the 'asked for it' crack was _way_ the hell out of line.

"And look, I don't know what all you said to him. I don't need to know, either. But Tony is a grown man. He's not a child. He's not a teenager. He's an armed Federal Agent with ten years on you, and he's your boss. He's fully capable of stopping you if he wants to. And if he couldn't shut you up, he's more than capable of walking away."

"I know."

"Good."

"And I know none of that was true when it came to me and my dad."

"Good."

"And it still hurts that something as stupid as me wearing nail polish bugs him."

Abby nods at that.

"Bugs me that right now my skin isn't thick enough to not be bugged by it. Normally he'd look at me, say 'Cute nails, McGoth' I'd flash him my, I'd so done with you look, roll my eyes, and that'd be it."

She smiles gently at him. "You go years not letting yourself feel stuff, or not dealing with it, and when you finally do, it comes back in an avalanche."

"I guess." He runs his fingers through his hair and looks up, staring at the ceiling, like it could make this better.

Abby detaches Kelly, looking down at her and saying, "I think you're done."

Tim snags the burp rag from her, drapes it over shoulder and chest, and then took Kelly from her, snugging her close, and patting her back gently, then stands and begins to pace their living room. For whatever reason, walking or rocking and patting works better than patting alone.

"We caught the guy. So, at least we're not stuck in a bus tomorrow."

Abby smiles at him. "There's a good thing." She thinks for a second. "So that means you were in the office, too?"

"Yeah."

"Anyone else say anything else about the nail polish?"

"Leon looked at it for like, a minute, and then looked at me, and I just raised an eyebrow at him, and he walked away shaking his head."

Abby laughs at that.

"He's probably consulting with legal about if he can put it in the regs that guys can't wear it."

"Come on. He didn't give you any shit."

"No. He didn't. I was holding a coffee cup when I went down to the lab to drop off the prints we got, and Zelaz saw my thumb first and asked if it really hurt when I did that, 'cause he thought I'd bruised up the whole nail black."

"Ooh. That would hurt."

"Yeah. I showed him the other nine and he got quiet. Told me he'd have the results back quick."

"So, no one gave you any crap, at all."

"No. Little startled, but no real crap."

"Good. Gonna take it off tonight?"

He looks at them, long fingers, very familiar, black nails, not nearly so much so, all resting across his daughter's back. "Is it something I do, or who I am?"

"Tim?"

"I said that to him, that it wasn't things I did that flipped him out, it's who I am. So is it a costume, or me?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yeah. Like, if it's just something I do… You've got no problem asking a person not to smoke in your home. It makes you uncomfortable, so you don't have to deal with it. Because it's something he does, not who he is. But you don't invite a diabetic to your home and serve him a pile of sugar, even if you do have to go out of your way to come up with something that isn't a pile of sugar, because that's who he is, not what he does. So, is this something I do, or who I am?"

"Are you asking you or asking me?"

"Both of us," he says quietly, lips pressed to the top of Kelly's head.

Abby stands up and gently touches his index finger nail. "You're a guy who likes costumes. Is it you? Right now it is. Maybe not tomorrow and maybe not yesterday, but the ability to dress up and slip into different Tims is you."

"Yeah. I think that's right. Gonna keep it on."

She wraps her arms around her husband and kisses him.


	6. Shared History

"My wife is dead."

It feels weird to say it out loud, doubly so because there's no one else in the room with him.

And he's fairly sure that saying it to himself isn't what Cranston meant by say it to someone.

God, how the hell do you say that to someone? You don't just walk up to them and say, 'Hey, guess what, my wife is dead." That's just horribly uncomfortable for everyone involved. And sure, Gibbs doesn't usually go out of his way to avoid making people feel uncomfortable, but there's a huge difference between staring down a perp and polite conversation among equals.

And at home, in his basement, starting the measurements for Anna Palmer's crib, he's not even sure who he'd say that to.

Mike.

Mike would have been his first choice. But, he looks around, and doesn't see Mike's ghost, doesn't feel him, and he's fairly certain that if he tells Rachel he's having heart to hearts with ghosts about dealing with grief he is rapidly going to find himself embracing an even earlier retirement than he was expecting.

Fornell and Ducky had both been upset that he'd never told them. Understood, eventually, but still upset. So… he puts his pencil down and picks up his phone and hits Ducky's contact number.

"Hello, Jethro." Penny's voice. He's getting ready to ask for Duck when a few things hit him. Penny's a widow. Penny lost her husband after forty years. The husband that by all accounts she adored.

Penny's done this.

Penny has perspective.

"Hi, Penny. Are you busy?"

"Not right this second."

"Wanna get some coffee with me?"

He hears the pause, where she's wondering what is going on. "Are you serious?"

He nods, realizes she can't see it, and says, "Yes."

"Just me?"

"Just you."

"Do you know you dialed Ducky?"

"Yep."

"Okay. Did you want me to give him a message."

"Nope." He can imagine the perplexed look on her face.

"Do you have my phone number?"

"Uh huh."

"So why did you call him?"

"Why did you pick up?"

"Phone was sitting next to me, and he's in the kitchen."

"Then that's why I called his phone. So, coffee?"

He can hear the confusion in her voice as she says, "Sure."

* * *

"Jethro," Penny says as she slips into the booth across from him. Before he could say much more than 'Hi,' Elaine's over.

She hands the menu with the specials on it to Penny, while asking, "What can I get you to start off with?"

"Coffee's fine."

"Iced or hot?"

"Hot." Elaine nods at that and then says, "New friend, Jethro?"

He smiles at her. "Keeping track of my ladies?"

"You know it, Hon. Looking for your next sweetie."

"Elaine, this is Penny, Tim's grandma."

She looks more carefully at Penny and says, "I should have seen that straight away. Shape of your eyes and face… Well, welcome Ms. Penny. Used to just get Jethro, but the last few years he's been bringing the family in. Get to see your darling baby girl on Sunday mornings. Anything you want, just holler and we'll have it for you. On the menu or not."

"Just Penny is fine." Eliane nods as that and heads off to get her coffee. "Sunday mornings?" Penny asks Gibbs.

"You know I've been going to church and Sunday dinner with them?"

Penny nods; Breena and Tim had mentioned that in passing.

"Last two, and hopefully going forward, weeks, we've had breakfast here first. Eight on Sundays, you and Duck want to come, to breakfast or church too, you're welcome. Meet Breena's family. They'll probably invite you to supper after."

Penny nods at that, smiling, as Elaine set a cup of coffee down in front of her, along with cream and sugar.

"Not sure how you like it, but I know tastes tend to run in families, and he takes his with cream and sugar."

Penny pours a splash of cream into her coffee as well as one sugar. "They do tend to. He had his first cup of it at my house. Would have been ten or eleven, drank some of mine, liked it." She stops telling the story there, but Gibbs catches the hesitation and knows there's more on that for when Elaine heads off.

Elaine sets a piece of strawberry pie in front of him to go with his coffee. She looks to Penny. "We've got pecan and raspberry, too. I know Tim likes both of them."

"Is the raspberry a frozen pie or a jam pie?"

"Oreo cookie crust, raspberry ice cream, raspberry puree, whipped cream and chocolate shavings on top."

"Yeah, he would love that," she says with a smile. "Bring me a piece, too."

Elaine nods at that and heads off again.

"So, let me guess," Gibbs says quietly, "John was fine with him drinking coffee until he saw it was yours and sweet and creamy and then yelled about how men drink it black?"

"Something like that. I was there, so it was just a few sarcastic comments, not full out yelling, but in context of what happened when I wasn't there, Tim dropping the coffee, spilling it down his shirt, which resulted in more sarcasm about being clumsy, and never drinking it again when his dad was around makes a whole lot more sense."

Jethro shakes his head and grits his teeth. And while learning more about Tim and his dad is something he's interested in, it's something he wants to learn from Tim, and also if he gets into it, he'll use it as a way to avoid dealing with his own stuff.

He doesn't know if Penny senses what he's thinking, or if she's just curious, but she asks, "So… what's got you offering coffee, Jethro? We're obviously not talking about Tim, or you would have had something to say besides just gritting your teeth. We planning a surprise for Ducky?"

"No. We could be, I guess, but we aren't… unless you want to."

Penny laughs at how startled he looks by that idea. "I'll put that on the back burner. So, if it's not about Ducky, what's going on?"

He takes a sip of his coffee, not saying anything for a long second. Then put it down and exhaled deeply. "Did Tim tell you he's got me seeing someone?"

"No, and what sort of someone?"

"A counselor. Dealing with…" another long exhale, "everything."

"No. He didn't mention that, and I'm glad to hear it."

"Yeah, great." He's feeling monumentally uncomfortable, and while she's listening attentively, she's not meeting him halfway or filling in the blanks on her own. "It's ummm… yeah…"

"Less than easy or comfortable?"

He nods decisively at that and jumps over the cliff. Dithering about it can't make it any easier. "My wife and daughter are dead. They were murdered when I was in Iraq. They are the loves of my life. And they're gone. And I haven't handled it well. And I realized that you've dealt with something similar." He tries to smile with that, but it comes off more pathetic than anything else.

Penny reaches across the table and squeezes his hand.

"You two were married forty years, right?" he asks as her hand withdraws.

"Yeah. Met in early '46, when I was fourteen and he was twenty-four. The Langstons were a navy family, too, and my dad was Nelson's commanding officer. Brought him home for working dinners a few nights a week. It was right after the war, I had a twenty and twenty-two-year-old sister at home, and my dad was dangling them in front of him, thinking he was good husband material for them.

"He was a Captain then. Working on making better aircraft carriers. I was bright and precocious and interested in math and geometry and how thing flew. My dad thought he was humoring me, letting me join in some of those conversations. After a few months of it, most nights we'd wrap up dinner, my mom and Elsa, the oldest sister would clear up the table, and Nelson would spread out his drawings and calculations, and we'd work on them together until I had to start my own homework or go to bed.

"By '48 he'd decided that he couldn't do a better job of trying to build a better aircraft carrier until he really knew what it was like to fly. He was accepted into the naval aviator training program, and we got married fast and headed to Pensacola, three weeks shy of my seventeenth birthday."

Gibbs shakes his head at that. Then he thinks for a moment. "Would have been forty years for us in October of '18."

Penny knows how old he is and does the math. "So you were babies, too."

"Not quite that young, but yeah. We were eighteen when we met. Really met. Lived in the same small town, went to school together, but were never in the same class. And even if we had been, I probably wouldn't have been brave enough to talk to her."

Penny smiles at that.

"Were you Mrs. McGee back then, when you first got married?"

"Mrs. Captain Nelson McGee."

Gibbs laughs at that.

Penny sips her coffee and takes a bite of the pie. "I was so obnoxiously proper back in the day. At least about things like that. Even back then having a seventeen-year-old bride, especially in the Officer Corp made you stick out. So, I dressed older, my manners were impeccable, and I was pretty enough to be attractive, but not so pretty that men wouldn't listen to what I had to say when I said it. I didn't talk a lot, not to the others, but when I did have something to say, it was always dead on right."

"How'd you get to be Dr. Langston?"

"Finished high school by correspondence just about the time John was born in '49. Had three more boys and finished my Bachelors by '56. Began working on original research in '57. I already knew that in the field I was working, medical technology, that Penelope McGee wasn't going to get any traction. And P. McGee didn't sound much better. So I'd publish as P. Langston. There wasn't biotech per se at that point, but in '61 John's Hopkins wanted to move in that direction, and, without knowing P. Langston was a woman, they offered me a research position based on the strength of my publications. I said yes. They were awfully shocked when I showed up, but Dr. Renner, who ran the program knew I was the real deal, and kept me on.

"You know about some of the stuff I worked on after that. A lot of it is still classified. But by '72 my husband was an Admiral, my oldest son was a Lieutenant Junior Grade in Vietnam, James, our second boy, had been killed in action, and Michael and Thomas were still too young to enlist."

"I didn't know you'd lost a child."

"Hasn't come up in conversation, and, though I'm sure Tim's aware of the existence of his Uncle James, it's not like they ever met."

Gibbs nods at that. "You two made it through though…"

"By the skin of our teeth. By the end of '72, I'd legally changed my name back to Langston and drawn up the divorce papers."

"But never pulled the trigger on it?"

"No. We worked a lot of it out, and after that dinner parties at the Admiral's house were always…" she smiles, "_interesting._ I was done being horribly proper, and he decided that having me, as me, in all my me-ness, was worth the occasional uncomfortable moment with the higher ups."

"Not a lot of higher ups when you hit flag rank."

"There is that. The number of guys he couldn't tell to go to hell with impunity was fewer than ten."

Gibbs thinks about that and nods. "What did you do when he died?"

"Handled it." She says with a rueful look. "I was a Navy wife, an Admiral's widow, stiff upper lip and all that crap. The Navy took care of the burial. Whatever's left of him is deep in the Pacific somewhere, maybe swimming around as ten or twenty generations of some sort of meat-eating critter. He'd have liked that. That maybe there's a king crab out there that's part him.

"You live with sailors or fishermen, you'll notice something, they don't, usually, eat crab. Maybe they do now, so few of them get killed in action, but especially when I was young, you could always tell a navy family or a fisherman's family because crab and lobster, no matter how cheap it was, and in Boston it was cheap, never went on the menu. Didn't know who you were eating. But he'd joke about that, how one day he'd be the biggest, meanest, oldest king crab scuttling along in the Pacific." She makes a pincher gesture with her fingers. Gibbs smiles and nods.

"I knew it as soon as I heard the knock. There's that, pause, stopping in front of the door that people just don't do when its good news. I heard the footsteps, heard the pause, and then the knock, slow, precise, and I knew. Hell, back during Korea and Vietnam, until we lost James, I was one of the people who'd stand on the porch, next to the Chaplain, ready to help comfort.

"I planned a very proper memorial, stoically took the condolences of the probably thousand people who dropped in over the course of three days. John brought me his flag, but I wouldn't take it. It meant more to him than it did to me, so he kept it. He's got it in his office along with all the medals."

"And after?"

She smiles again. "Four day after the funeral, after everyone had left, when I was just knocking about alone in my house, the way I had been doing for a decade at that point... It was just like him being at sea, except it wasn't because he wasn't ever going to come home again. That alone and waiting had changed to just alone. I broke down, finally let go of stoic, cried for days, and then I cut my hair off. Total buzz cut. I think it was a third of an inch long. Packed everything up. Gave most of it away. Put some of it in storage. Tim's mom got a few boxes. And then I bought a ticket to Italy and spent the next two years traveling. We were going to travel. He had placed he wanted me to see. I had places I wanted to see. So, I did them. Took pictures. Sent post cards home. Tim probably still has some of them. Didn't come home until I was feeling like a person again."

"How'd that happen?"

"I don't know." The expression on her face is soft, comforting. "It just did. You ever chip a tooth?"

He nods.

"You know how you just can't not keep poking it with your tongue, and you end up with a chipped tooth and a sore on your tongue."

He nods at that too.

"But eventually, you get the tooth fixed, and eventually your tongue stops hurting."

"Yeah."

"That's what happened. Eventually it stopped hurting so bad. He went the way he wanted to. Sooner than either of us would have liked, but it was fast, painless, and at sea. He couldn't have asked for more than that."

"Still miss him?"

"Sure. Especially for family things. I love sharing Molly and Kelly with Ducky. That's true and always will be. But I would have liked to have seen Nelson hold his great grand-daughter, too. Wanna hear something funny?"

"Sure."

"They would have liked each other. You'd have never gotten the two of them to shut up. Nelson loved stories, too, and had a million of them. He was a good listener and a good story teller and the two of them would have gotten on splendidly."

Gibbs smiles at that, trying to imagine both men together.

"I think Tim gets that from him. He always had to put everything into stories. It was how he made sense of the world."

"You have any serious boyfriends between Nelson and Ducky?"

She smiles at that, looking very amused. "I had friends. Some very good friends. Some less good friends. Some acquaintances. Ducky's the only man I've attempted to live with, since.

"One of the things I've missed most about Nelson was a man who didn't find my mind a threat. Someone who would love me because of it, instead of in spite of it. I'm an academic. Even traveling, I tended to stay in places filled with people who live and die by their minds. And what I rapidly found out was that men who had a brain, and a modicum of charm, and who weren't intimidated by a woman with a brain, were all married by the time they hit my age. The ones who weren't, were like Ducky, married to a job. Or they were grad students or undergrads, which was fun, but not any sort of long term solution.

"Jerks and blowhards existed in droves. Mincing piranhas who couldn't have identified manhood, let alone been one, tons of them."

Gibbs was looking at her curiously. It never occurred to him that someone who was proud of being arrested at different peace/feminist rallies would appreciate "manhood."

She sees the look, and responds to it with, "Women don't need men. But we_want_ them. I never had any problem with any man who wanted me and wanted me to want him. I had and have a whole lot of problems with men who try to create or uphold a world where I _need_ one to survive."

"People like to be needed."

"Men like power. Being needed creates power. Men especially love the power and hate the responsibility of that power. So they write laws that codify the power and let them off easy on the responsibility."

Gibbs decides this is a good point to get off politics or philosophy or whatever this is and get back to family history and getting through grief.

"What happened after James died?"

"Didn't like the last topic, hit too close?"

"Don't like being judged based on the actions of every other asshole on earth. I imagine you don't, either."

"Fair enough. June of '72. Things were slowing down, but not done, in Vietnam. Nelson was the newest Admiral of the US Navy. John was a Lieutenant Junior Grade. James was three weeks out of Annapolis, brand new Ensign. They were both turtle navy." She gives Gibbs a questioning look, making sure he knows what that is. He nods, familiar with that term for Naval deployments on rivers. "Bringing supplies in, taking men out, stuff like that. Dangerous as hell, on a tiny boat, filled with weapons, moving through the jungle, no real line of sight, possible ambush from anywhere on shore, and on occasion, the rivers got mined, too.

"Three weeks in, his boat took fire, he didn't make it." She looks away from Gibbs, out the window of the diner, just staring into space for a long minute. "That never gets easier, does it?" she asks, shaking her head, ruefully.

"No. It doesn't."

"I'd already joined the peace movement at that point. Quietly. That was the deal Nelson and I had, once he made Admiral, I could be as outspoken as I wanted to, but before that, I needed to keep quiet. And I did. And he'd give me occasional bits of information on thing he thought were dishonorable, that no honest man could support, and I made sure they saw the light of day.

"Like what you were doing with the Annex project."

"That was one of them. It's one thing to be a warrior and to fight other warriors. It's another all together to unleash plague and famine upon non-combatants. Neither of us approved of that. Napalm to clear a landing zone is one thing. Napalm on a village is another all-together."

Gibbs nods at that. There have been numerous times he's wondered what he would have done if he'd been five or ten years older and ended up in Vietnam. He and Fornell have had a few long conversations about that.

"When James died, quiet stopped. I started getting arrested. Admiral's wife at protest march made for impressive headlines. I wanted to destroy anything that had a hand in sending my son off to die. But to do that, I had to cut ties with two of my sons, Michael was a plebe at Annapolis that year, and my husband.

"When we should have been pulling together to share the grief, we all ran our own separate directions and screamed it to the heavens."

"But you pulled together eventually?"

"Eventually. Like Nelson, James was buried at sea. Should have been shipped home, but when you're an Admiral you can get things like that done. We've never been a dust to dust family. From the sea we came, and to the sea we return. Or as Nelson would say, 'We're water given breath and set free to walk upon God's green earth. Allowed a short time to see what else is out there, and then we'll return to the oceans that gave us life.' But, because of that, I never really got a proper goodbye. And I was so mad at him.

"Eventually in early '73, Nelson got home. And we got a chance to talk, and yell, and cry, and scream, and fight and mourn and all of it… And when it was done, we still loved each other and we decided to stay together. What did you do after your girls died?"

"Earned my second purple heart the day they died. Didn't come out of the coma I was in until after they were buried. I was invalided home, granted compassionate leave on top of that. And for a week, I more or less lay on the sofa, stared at the ceiling, and did nothing. Only time I did anything was when Mike Franks, the NIS agent handling Shannon and Kelly's case would come around. He'd get me up enough to eat something and occasionally shower, took care of me in a hands off sort of way.

"Wasn't like he was asking me questions or anything. They knew why my girls had been killed. They knew who did it. It was just a matter of trying to get the guy who did it.

"That was the pattern for about two months. He'd pop by once or twice a week, usually with a bottle of bourbon, two cups of coffee, a bag of McDonalds hamburgers and fries, and 'fill me in on their progress' while pouring the bourbon, coffee, and food down my throat.

"Eventually he hit the point where they knew where the guy was, but Mexico wasn't going to go out of its way to capture or extradite him. So, Mike invited me in to his office, told me that it'd be a good plan to show up having gotten a shower and shave so no one would notice me when I went in, and then while he was 'releasing personal items to me' he got called away from his desk while the file with everything about the man who killed my girls, including their best guess as to where he was, was sitting open on his desk. Then he 'forgot' I was in there for two hours."

He could remember Franks heading back into that dingy little office, seeing him there, giving a big, mock startled jump, saying, "Good Lord, Gibbs! Completely forgot you were in here. Here, let me get this signed." He took the bag with the 'personal items,' which was actually empty, none of the evidence in the case could go missing, signed it, staring at him, and said, "I hope you found what you needed," his eyes giving Gibbs permission to do what he wouldn't.

Gibbs nodded at him. Didn't say anything, and left.

"When Hernandez ended up dead, killed by a sniper's bullet, no one fussed much. Guy ran a drug family, competition's pretty fierce in that job. The Federales didn't exactly strain themselves looking for who shot him. After that case, Mike got transferred back east.

"Like you, I packed everything up, headed back east. I put that life in a box, bunch of boxes, stuck them in the attic, found Mike again, and learned how to be a cop." He fiddles with his coffee cup as he says that.

"And now you're taking that life back out of the boxes?"

"Been doing that for ten years. Trying to figure out what to do with it's more likely."

"That's always the question, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

"Ideas?"

He blows out a frustrated breath. "Working on getting some."


	7. Conversations

The problem with trying to have a somewhat serious conversation with an eighteen-month-old is that eighteen-month-olds have the attention span of a humming bird, and also, the time sense.

To a toddler everything is right now or not happening at all.

Later is something they're still learning.

But, in that Jimmy and Breena are getting Molly ready for church, and after church, Sunday supper, and in that they got the 18 week ultrasound results back, and would be announcing that Anna Palmer was healthy, growing like a weed, and as the name indicates, a girl, at said supper, finally saying something to Molly about her little sister seemed like a good plan.

So, holding his little squirmy ball of not wanting to go to church on his lap, while Breena stood in front of her, trying to get the shoes she was trying to kick off onto her feet, Jimmy said, "Molly, we've got a surprise for you!"

That stopped the flailing. Surprises are good things, sometimes involving cookies. She squirmed a bit more to look up at him, while Breena dove in to take advantage of the lull in the kicking.

"Around Christmastime you're going to be a big sister!"

Molly doesn't look very impressed by that surprise. Probably because while she knows what some of those words mean, Christmastime and big sister are concepts that mean nothing to her.

Breena stood up from wrestling on the shoes, and Jimmy held out Molly's hands, pressing them to Breena's tummy. "There's a baby growing in mama's tummy."

That was more concrete.

"Kelly?" Molly asks. Kelly = baby in Molly's mind.

"Like Kelly. But this is a very, very little baby right now." Breena held her hands less than a foot apart. "When it gets cold out, she'll be about Kelly's size, and then she'll come out."

Anna decided this was a good moment to start kicking, and Jimmy quickly moved Molly's hand to where her little sister was getting some exercise.

"That's your little sister, Anna, kicking. Just like when you're in the pool. That's what she's doing in there," Jimmy says as Molly stares at Breena's belly.

"Eat baby?"

"No! We don't eat babies!" Breena says, bending down, nibbling on Molly's ear and neck, making Cookie Monster snarfing up cookies sounds. "No eating babies for us. Nom nom nom nom nom!"

Molly shrieks with laughter, and Jimmy adds to it, tickling her gently.

* * *

"We are never going to be anywhere in less than an hour ever again, are we?" Abby asks.

Tim shrugs as they pull into the diner, seeing that Gibbs' car is already there.

Of course, it would be, in that they're twenty-five minutes late.

Massive diaper blow out two minutes before leaving the house, involving not just Kelly, but also Abby needing to completely change outfits, and honestly, get hosed off, (and since Tim was on clean up baby duty, while Abby got herself cleaned up, that meant his suit also had to go by the wayside, because there's no way on Earth to get a two month old completely cleaned off while wearing long sleeves, unless you want whatever it is you're cleaning off the two month old all over your sleeve. Fortunately for him, unlike Abby, he could just put the same outfit back on again once Kelly was tidied up.) too, means that they are nowhere remotely near on time.

They were halfway in when Tim noticed that Gibbs wasn't alone in his usual booth. In fact, he wasn't in the usual booth at all. He scans the diner and sees Gibbs, Ducky, and Penny in the larger booth in the back corner.

He kisses his grandmother's cheek as they slide into the booth, seeing drinks waiting for them.

"Hi?" _Not that I'm not happy to see you two, but what's up?_ on his face.

"Jethro invited us," Penny answers.

Abby's looking at Gibbs expectantly.

"Family traditions. Seems like the start of a good one."

"Are you coming to church after?" Abby asks, taking a sip of her frozen watermelon lemonade.

"At least this once," Ducky replies. "Maybe more often."

"Probably not every week. See how it goes."

"Do Jimmy and Breena know you're coming?" Tim asks.

"Yes. I called him before we left," Ducky replies. "If all goes well, they'll probably join us next week."

"Anyone think to invite Tony and Ziva? Sure they probably don't want to come along for church…" Abby says.

"I'll ask Ziva at Bootcamp. Offer the invite to church, as well. I mean, if this is part of our family thing…"

Elaine heads over to them, plates of food, unordered, but awfully tasty looking, for both Tim and Abby in her hands.

"Figured you'd probably want something hot and ready to go fast. Get you off to church on time."

"Thanks, Elaine," Tim says while Abby nods, making a happy noise, seeing waffles piled high with strawberries and whipped cream on her plate.

Kelly got a quick little petting and a 'hello darling girl' as Elaine headed off and Tim and Abby started to eat, quickly, so they could get to church on time.

* * *

In general, Abby considers staying out of any fights the boys get into to be a good plan. They're grown-ups. They can take care of themselves. And, honestly, getting extra people into a fight has never, in her experience, ever made anything better or defused the situation.

You just end up with even more people pissed off.

But, after Shabbos, she can see Tim and Tony still both tense, both walking on eggshells, and more than that, still kind of pissed.

And, okay, that's probably an excuse. Tim's comment about Tony talking about the collar and 'asking for it' rankles. Especially about asking for it.

She knows Ziva, Tim, and Jimmy are at bootcamp with Gibbs, and she's pretty sure where Tony'll be. So, as the Sunday supper/Anna Palmer celebration party began to wind down, she heads toward Tony and Ziva's place.

"Abby?" Tony says, opening the door, seeing Abby in front of him, wearing a cute, Sunday-best sundress, Kelly in the snugli on her chest. "What's up?"

"You and I talking is up."

"Okay." He backs tentatively into his living room. "Not that I'm not happy to see you but, what are we talking about?"

"There's exactly one thing you never, ever say to someone who's been abused, and that's 'you asked for it.'"

He looks embarrassed. "I know."

"And I know you know that, so why'd you say that to Tim?"

"Besides the fact that I was trying to piss him off as much as he was pissing me off?"

Abby nods.

"Because he put the collar on, paraded it around in front of me, and basically told me he _does_ ask for it. I worked vice, I know what that collar means," he cringes a little, probably isn't aware of the fact that he did it, but Abby certainly notices, "and just because I don't like it doesn't mean you can't. I get it's consensual and whatever, and you're both grown-ups, but…" He winces again, and that time he did seem to know he'd done it, so he stops it, fast. "But if he's wearing that, he's telling me and everyone else who knows how to read that symbol that he does ask for it."

Abby's eyes narrow and her voice goes very hard. "Ziva asked for it. She knew she had no back up. She knew she couldn't do the mission on her own. She knew she'd be captured, and she knew what they did to captives. Instead of scuttling the mission, she went on, walked right into the terrorist camp. She was asking for everything that happened to her in Somalia."

Tony's glare was hot enough to boil coffee.

"Yeah, that was _way_ the hell out of line, wasn't it?" Abby says, pacing in front of the sofa, patting Kelly's back, and trying to keep her voice even so she doesn't get upset. "And saying it to her, no matter how pissed I am, would be even worse."

He nods, slowly.

"Makes you want to hit me, right?"

He shakes his head at that. Not hitting girls is a deeply ingrained trait for him.

"Want to yell at me, then?"

"Yeah."

"Back at you. Tim has _never_ asked for it. He wasn't asking for it when he was six and it started. He wasn't asking for it when he was fourteen and being a teenage snot to his dad. He wasn't asking for it when he was twenty-four, and you started messing with him. Him sleeping at his desk wasn't asking to have his face superglued to it. Nothing he does is asking for bullying. There's no such thing as asking for it; there's just justifying your behavior so you can sleep at night.

"When he wears my collar, he's not 'asking for it' let alone telling you he's 'asking for it.' It's not about whatever you remember from your vice days. It never has been and it never will be. S and M aren't part of either of our playbooks, but even if it was, it _still_ wouldn't be the crap you used to bust people for. The only thing that collar symbolizes is that he's mine. Same as the ring and the tattoos."

Tony doesn't buy that. "If it was the same as the ring and the tattoos he wouldn't have added the collar to face me and you wouldn't have given it to him."

"He was wearing it to wig you out. How long were you in vice?"

"Two years."

"You didn't pay much attention, did you? Black handkerchief in the back pocket is the symbol of being up for the rough stuff. The collar is a sign of belonging and submission. It's about being able to take orders. It's about him being MINE. And he knew that'd flip you out. That anything that goes off the John-Wayne-man-in-charge roll is squirmy for you. He wasn't trying to flip you out with violence, but with gender-role reversal.

"And it's part of the armor, Tony. Gearing up for the fight, donning his lady's favor. Something like that.

"As for me giving it to him, the kind of place we go where he wears it, the rings and the tattoos aren't a definitive MINE signal. The collar is. Let's everyone else know to keep their hands off. Otherwise, he's fair game."

"Uh huh. Because that's normal, going to places where a wedding ring isn't enough of a hint that he's off limits."

"No, it's not normal. But it's fun. The music is good. The beat's hard. And it's amazingly sexy. And I know you feel that. Other guys check out Ziva, and you feel that, MINE… Feels good, right?"

He rolls his eyes a bit. "Yeah. Sort of. Feels angry, too. She's mine, eyes off asshole. She's MINE, I won her, she picked me, not you, loser. Both of those things are there."

"Before I had him, the eyes-off-asshole was definitely part of it. But I'm not afraid of him wandering off anymore. No shot of losing him. So, we go out, I don't feel that. Just the high of knowing that half the woman and a quarter of the men are checking out my guy, seeing the collar, knowing they can't make a move because he's mine."

"Great. I don't need to know that about you two."

"No, you probably don't. But you should know that collar or not, geek or not, femme or not, or whatever it is you think is an invitation, nothing he's doing is asking for it."

"I get it."

"Good."

"I haven't pulled anything beyond mild teasing in years."

Abby nodded. "I know that and he does, too. He loves you, you know that, right?"

"Yeah."

"And it hurts that you look at the collar or the kilt and wince."

"I know. I'm trying. But…"

"Yeah, I know, it hits your ick button. Took you a while to get used to me."

"And on you, it's cute."

"It's cute on him, too,"

"Guys over the age of twenty aren't supposed to be cute! Almost thirty-seven year old men who are fathers and are on the verge of taking over their own department of a Federal Law Enforcement Agency really aren't supposed to be cute."

Abby rolls her eyes at that. "Uh huh. You two going to be okay?"

"Yeah. I may not get the collar, but I get punching the asshole in front of you when you can't hit the asshole you're really mad at."

"He's really mad at you, too."

"Not the way he's mad at his dad or mom."

"True."

"And I'm here and they aren't."

"Also true."

"We okay?" he asks Abby.

"We are. I know you're doing better. And a lot of his mad is the fact that he just kept shoving every piece of crap into the background for decades—"

"Which means I've got ten years of shit I've pulled on him all bubbling up at once. I get it."

"Okay. I'm going to head home. Try and get her in her crib before she falls asleep."

"Good plan."

* * *

A minute after getting out of the locker room, Tim noticed Ziva was still hanging around. Normally they fight, hit the showers, and head home.

But she's standing outside the men's locker room, chatting with Gibbs, and when she sees Tim and Jimmy come out she says to them (because he's got to snag a ride home with one of them, his car was still at the Slater's with Abby and Breena) "I'll run him home."

Tim's eyebrows rise up be he nods in agreement, vaguely wondering if Tony spilled the beans and told Ziva about Ender. But as they get into Ziva's car, and she turns it, and the AC on, but doesn't put it into gear, she says, "Everyone else gets to hear your story, but not me?"

"Ziva…" Or it could be that.

"It's not a demand or anything, McGee… just… I am here. I am a good listener. And… And I know more about being small and powerless, dependent on the will of someone who wanted nothing good for me, than anyone else you know."

"I know, and that's why…" He closes his eyes and sighs a little, half shaking his head and licking his lips. "It just feels so self-centered and whiny to complain or even talk about anything like that to you. You were…" he doesn't want to say it, not sure if he doesn't want to acknowledge it, or if saying it makes it worse, or what exactly is going on there, but the word doesn't form on his lips.

"Raped, McGee. That's the word," she says with a steady voice and a nod. "Captured. Tortured. Interrogated. Starved. Given only two cups of water a day. And raped. More than once and by different men."

He half-smiles at her, not sure what to do with that. She half-smiles back.

"You don't have to hide it or mince words. Not speaking the name of something gives it more power, not less, that was in one of those Harry Potter books you gave me. And it's right. Living it was bad enough, and I refuse to give them another second of power over me or another molecule of fear.

"When you got me back, I was ready to die. My spirit was broken, attached to my body by less than a thread. But you got me back, and in time my spirit came home again, and realized how to be in my body once more."

"I remember… I remember a lot of getting you back and how you flinched when anyone touched you for weeks after. How you looked like you wanted nothing more than to curl into Gibbs, but couldn't do it."

"Yes."

"And that's a big part of not saying anything to you. It was just words. Mean words. But just words. And mean words pale in comparison. And flipping out over it, being all sensitive and off and… It's like complaining about a broken ankle to someone who's lost a leg."

"Pain is pain, McGee. Mine, yours, it's all still pain. Fear is fear. It's not less fear because the monster in the closet was just a shadow, and it is certainly not less because someone else had a real monster in their closet."

He shrugs.

"The monster in your closet was real. The monster in mine was worse. That does not make yours any less real. Nor does it mean you do not get to seek comfort for the wounds that monster left."

"You never sought comfort from us."

She tilts her head acknowledging that. "In a way." She sighs again. "I imagine right now I am looking at you very much the way you are looking at me. Not pity, because that's not it, but that pain of knowing someone you love was hurt, wishing you could help, knowing you can't."

He nods at that.

"I couldn't take that look. Not from any of you. Not then. My own pain filled up enough of my life, and I couldn't take yours or Tony's or Gibbs' on top of it."

"Why you told us not to come when you buried your father?"

"Then, too. I took what I could from you, normal. The rhythm of cases. The fact that you weren't willing to treat me like glass. It wasn't enough, but it was what I needed, then. Two years of counseling helped, too."

"I didn't know that."

"I didn't tell anyone."

"Why not?"

"Probably the same reason you did not tell us. You have to keep going back to it to talk about it."

"Yeah, you do. So, I guess Tony told you why I flipped out on him."

"He did. And I am sorry to hear it."

He shrugs at that, too. Not sure if there's a graceful response to 'I'm sorry your parents abused you.' "It wasn't that bad."

"You don't have to say that to me. A broken ankle hurts. Really hurts. And you have to adjust to moving a different way. But it heals, stronger than it was before it broke. You baby it for a while, take it easy, avoid the same situation where you broke it in the first place. But when you stop protecting it, and you start running again, you're not as fast, and you stumble and trip and get hurt again. But if you keep at it, you do get stronger than you were before, than you could have ever been before.

"I survived, Tim. You did, too. And neither of us are cripples because of it, not anymore."

He leans over and hugs her.


	8. Why Marry Them

Gibbs set Rachel's coffee on the little table she had next to her chair, and limped to the sofa, setting his crutch to his side, and taking his coffees out.

"How's the knee doing?" she asks once he's settled, taking a sip of the coffee. "Thank you, this is lovely."

He nods. "Down to just the brace next week. They want me to go to physical therapy."

"You don't sound happy about that."

He shrugs. "Not happy about the whole thing." He taps his knee. "Don't like feeling useless. They'll only okay me for light duty once I get off the crutches. Then won't get okayed for full duty until the physical therapy is done, and that'll be about a week before I retire."

"Sorry to hear it."

"Yeah, well… It is what it is. Work with the boys. Have Ziva put me through my paces. I'll get it done faster than they expect, but faster'll be two weeks, three weeks before they boot me out? Not a big difference."

"No. I guess not." She makes a little note of that.

"What?"

"Reminding myself to talk with you about retiring, but probably not today."

"Okay. What are we talking about today?"

"Did you do your homework?"

He nods, taking a sip of his coffee.

"Who'd you tell?"

"Penny."

Rachel thinks about that. She knows the name but isn't immediately coming up with who Penny is. He sees that.

"Tim's grandma, Ducky's…" he sort of rolls his eyes. "Can you call a woman north of eighty a girlfriend? And if I did, I'd have to listen to her lecture on she's a woman, not a girl, and that describing her by her relationships to the men in her life diminishes her personhood. Or something like that. I zoned out last time."

"The third corner in your grandparenting triangle?"

"Yes. Kelly's great-grandma. Maybe that one won't get me chewed out. She might do it just because she knows it bugs me."

"Sounds like you have an adversarial relationship."

"Not really. Not as smooth as the rest of the family; there's friction but not anger…" he thinks about that and decides it feels right. "If she was thirty years younger, I would have been interested. Of course, if she was thirty years younger, I wouldn't have been smart enough for her."

"Is that part of the friction?"

"Nah. We met on a case—"

"Not through Tim?"

"Not really. He was taking point, she's his grandma after all. She wasn't talking, actually playing him, so I went in and went hard, and she may have called me a jack-booted fascist, or thought it, not sure if it actually came out, but she didn't know I wasn't as straight up law and order as I looked and I didn't know she wasn't as hippie-dippie, peacenik as she looked, and we both kind of nudge each other with it now and again."

"Family dinners must be a blast."

He nods, smiling. "Little tense right now, but yeah, usually, they are.

"Tense?"

"Long story. Not actually mine, this time." He's not breaking Tim or Tony's confidence.

"Will it be okay?"

"I think so. Might be some more cussing and the occasional head slap to get 'em all moving right, but we'll get there."

"And it's your job to deliver the head slaps?"

"Only if they can't work it out for themselves. I think they will."

Rachel makes a note of that, too.

He looks at her curiously.

"One of these days I want to hear about this family you've built. Created families of the kind you have are fairly rare, working ones rarer still. Tim and Penny are the only two with any blood ties?"

He nods and she makes a note of that, too. Long note. He decides not to ask what she's thinking right now. They'll get to it sooner or later.

"So, why Penny?"

"Her husband died back in '88. She'd been married to him all her life at that point. They lost a son in 'Nam. Wanted to talk to someone who got it."

"Sounds like a good choice."

"I think so. It was a good conversation. Got to know more about her, too. Though neither of us seem to know how the switch flips and you move on. She said it just did."

"How'd her husband die?"

"I don't know the details. She said he was at sea, it was unexpected, and painless. It was the '80s and he was an Admiral, so I'm fairly sure it wasn't combat related."

"Admiral?"

"Yeah, her son, Tim's dad, is one, too."

"You weren't kidding about not being smart enough."

"No. Not smart enough. Not ambitious enough. You need at least a PhD before she's willing to look at you for more than a good time."

"She must be a very interesting woman."

"She is."

"He likely died of natural causes?"

"I think so."

"And she doesn't think she had anything to do with how he died? No guilt?"

"Probably not."

Rachel stares at him.

"Yeah, I know, probably has a lot to do with flipping that switch." She makes a note at that, and he has a feeling she's thinking up his next homework assignment.

"How did saying it feel?"

His look could best be described as, _how do you think_?

"That's the point of this, Jethro, I don't assume how it works for you, I ask. And even when I do know, I still ask, because then you have to think about it, put it into words, and actually tell me."

"Really uncomfortable."

"Why?"

"Talking? Bringing it up out of the middle of nowhere? That look that comes right after you say it? All of it?"

Rachel nods.

"Are you going to do it again?"

"Probably. There's this diner we go to. Elaine's the lady who runs the counter. She asked when I put the ring on, 'Go and get married again, hon?' and I said no, and left it, and she hasn't poked. Probably tell her the next time I go in for a late night coffee."

"Sounds good."

He shrugs. "She'll give me a hug and pie."

"Hugs and pie are good."

"Not saying they aren't just…"

"It's easier to be invulnerable?"

"Yes!"

"Too bad. You're human, Jethro. None of us are made of stone."

"Yay," he says, dry and sarcastic.

She takes another drink of her coffee and picks up the pages he wrote about the wives and girlfriends. "I was reading over your collection of ladies, and I wanted to know, why did you marry them?"

He blows out a frustrated breath. "Beyond it seemed like a good idea at the time?"

"Yes. You're a fairly traditional guy, so can I assume that at some point, for each of these women, you went out, found a ring, came up with some sort of 'let's get married' speech, set up some sort of romantic encounter, and then stuck around long enough to plan a wedding, and then got married?"

"Only two weddings."

"Hm. One was Shannon, who was the other one?"

"Diane."

"What were the other two?"

"Eloped. Justice of the Peace with Hannah, Marine Chaplain owed me a favor for Stephanie."

"Okay. So let's start with Hannah. What made you think, 'I should marry this woman?'"

He exhales, looking a bit sheepish. "Not exactly my finest moment."

She smiles at that and nudges him on. "We can talk about your finest moments, later. Why'd you marry her?"

"She was young, twenty-three, going to school to be a pharmacist. Which was why she was in DC in the first place. She finished about four months after we started dating. Her family was in Buffalo. They wanted her to find a job closer to them. Wanted her to drop me, move home, meet a nice guy, one a lot closer to her age, settle down, make lots of little red-haired grandbabies. They didn't much like me, probably because they had an easier time seeing who I was than she did. So, she was telling me about her parents giving her grief about heading back north. I wasn't in love with her. But I didn't want her to leave. And if I didn't make a move, she was going to go, and I was going to be rattling around the house with just memories and bourbon for company.

"So, I found a ring, and I lied my ass off about loving her for the rest of our days, and she said yes, and two weeks later she was Mrs. Gibbs."

"How was it?"

"Okay, for about a year. That year was better than Diane or Stephanie. We got on pretty well. Not… not what I wanted, but better than nothing."

"And after that year?"

"I caught the Boone case, and that one ate me, and our marriage, alive. I don't even know when she actually left. Just one day I noticed that her stuff was gone. She could have left that afternoon, she could have left a month earlier, and I had no idea.

"Didn't contest the divorce. Signed over whatever she wanted, besides the house. That was mine. That's the only thing I've managed to keep a hold of, besides my tools, through the three divorces."

"And Diane?"

He smiles at that. He might not remember where they were when they met, but he certainly remembered that look she gave him, and the way she said, 'Back off. I don't like cops.' "She told me I wasn't her type."

"And you had to prove her wrong?"

He shakes his head, half-smile still on his face. "Or die trying."

"Why did you have a real wedding with her?"

"Diane and I liked anything that made sparks. Sex, teasing, fighting… Anything that got us hot was good. And a wedding is seventeen million things to fight about. Hell, I almost cancelled the thing three times just to stretch it out even longer, because the arguing was fun."

"Did she think it was fun?"

"She changed the date on me twice."

"Cold feet?"

"Moved it up the second time. Nah. Just messing with me. But eventually, we did get married, and we had a great honeymoon, and we got home and ran out of stuff to argue about. And if we weren't fighting, I wasn't interested."

Rachel stares at him, looking like she doesn't think that's the whole story. "You won?"

"Yeah. I won. I proved her wrong. And I got bored. And she got angry. And that kept things going a little longer. I got more and more into work. Into the next case, the next puzzle, the next challenge. She got more and more annoyed. Then she got mean. And I pulled in further. She got clingy and meaner. I took Agent Afloat. We were divorced by the time I got back."

Rachel squints at him. "The way you write about her seems… fonder."

"I am fond of her. Now. And a long time between then and now helps. We keep running into each other. And… We're okay… ish, now. At peace, definitely. For some reason, every single fall, it's practically clockwork, sometime between September and November, I'll find Fornel or Diane at a case, and within minutes the other one shows up."

"God's amused by you three together?"

He rolls his eyes and sighs a little. "Satan probably. Every year. And I already know the one after next. Tobias is getting married in October of '16. Last time she got married, she invited both of us. We didn't go. Tobias was going to, got all dressed up, showed up at my place, saw I was in street clothing, and we spent the rest of the day drinking in my basement.

"So, he's already got it set with Wendy, she's cool with it. After all, she's not just his ex, but also his daughter's mom. He's going to invite her. And she'll come. I'll be there, I'm the best man." Gibbs looks up, licks his lips, and shakes his head.

"Jethro?"

"Unless she's found herself a new pet, she'll show up, we'll argue, it'll be fun, and we'll end up in bed together."

That got a curious look from Rachel.

"We were always good at pushing each other's buttons. And so far, every time we've run into each other, she's been married, or had a new boyfriend. But last I heard, she was single again."

"You seem pretty sure your advances would be welcome."

He's not entirely sure what that look on Rachel's face means. "Are you asking if I think I'm God's gift to women, and she'll just fall for me because I think it might be interesting, or if I actually know something to indicate making a move would be welcome?"

She nods, nicely, but nods. He sends her a wry look, one that makes it pretty clear that he knows he's not God's gift to women, not these days.

"She told me I was her Shannon. I think, especially if we spent a night sniping at each other, all dressed up, kind of tipsy, it'd be welcome. Probably end up making out in the parking lot."

And while Rachel looks really surprised at that, she's not surprised about the making out in the parking lot comment. "She knew about Shannon? Did you tell her?"

"No. Never spoke her name for… close to a decade. Like I said, we had a great honeymoon, we got home, and I got bored. She knew I was bored. Knew something was wrong, didn't know what. We limped around for a few months, and she got more and more angry, and I dug further and further into work. The challenge was over. I'd won. She was Mrs. Gibbs, mine, and even whacking me with a golf club didn't shake the boredom.

"I took Agent Afloat. Six months in the Med. While I was gone, she went through all my stuff, and found out about them."

"Oh. Yet, even with that, it sounds like you're still attracted to her."

"I am. She's beautiful. And I do like her. Always did. Probably always will. Don't like the way she gets mean and shrill when she's unhappy, but I do like her."

"So. You aren't the same man you were then. Say you did go to the wedding, you did get tipsy and push each other's buttons, find yourselves a quiet bit of parking lot, would a new start be welcome? Obviously she cares for you. You like her…"

"Don't think I'd be able to trust her enough for it. Not for more than sex."

Another curious look.

"I'd been afloat for five weeks when I got the 'I'm pregnant' letter."

Cranston winces. She remembers the comment about the vasectomy.

"Tobias'?"

"Yeah. Her name is Emily. She's sixteen. Beautiful girl. Funny, smart as a whip, calls me Uncle Gibbs."

"You have a relationship with Emily Fornell?" Cranston looks stunned and amused.

He chuckles, shaking his head. "Life is weird. I'm her father's best friend and her mom's ex-husband. Yeah. She's at my house for extended family parties a few times a year. Occasionally she crashes at my place when they're driving her buggy. My door's always open, and they both trust that if she's at my place, she's safe and well-looked after."

Cranston closes her eyes, smiles, and shakes her head. "Sounds like you and Diane are better than okay… ish."

"We're okay, now."

"But you don't trust her?"

"Not deep down."

"But you trust Tobias?"

"Yeah."

"Why?" _Takes two to make a baby_ clear in her eyes.

He licks his lips and looks up again, trying to figure out how to put this feeling into words. "The three of us got on great. Dinner at my place, especially before we got married, was always a lot of fun. I knew he liked her. I knew she liked him. And when I got the letter… It was the nineties, hard to make calls off a battleship, but I was the Agent Afloat, so I managed it. I called Tobias. And I was so…

"So…"

"I _knew_ it wasn't mine. I mean, I just knew. I'd told her I didn't want kids. She seemed on board with that. She'd been on the pill."

"You didn't tell her about the vasectomy?"

"No. Couldn't tell her about that without telling her why I'd had one. Not like the scar is obvious, so, never mentioned it.

"So, I knew she couldn't be mine. But, I saw the word on the paper and felt the thrill of it and the kick in the balls all at once. I called Tobias, and he was acting off, but I was too out of it to really notice, but he did remind me that sometimes vasectomies heal up, so I should get it tested before I got a hold of a divorce lawyer."

"So you did."

"Yeah, easy test. Anyone with a microscope can do it."

"And you hadn't had any sort of miraculous recovery."

"No. And when the medic told me that, I realized that Tobias had been acting off, and I suddenly knew why. And that hurt like fuck. Fourth worst hurt of my life. But… He's not the one I married. He's not the one who told me he was okay with not having children. And he's not the one who slept with my best friend and tried to pass off his kid as mine."

Cranston nods at that. "What do you think she was doing?"

"I think she thought that, after seeing the shots of Kelly, that if there was a baby it'd get my attention, and keep it. And it would have. She was dead right. Like I said, Diane always knew how to push my buttons. If Emily had been mine… But she wasn't."

"Does Emily know…"

He shakes his head. "She's under the impression Diane and I got divorced a year earlier than we actually did."

"Ah."

"None of the three of us see any reason for her to know the truth on that."

"Probably wise. How about Stephanie? Why did you marry her?"

He shrugs.

"Don't give me that, you know."

"I couldn't have Shannon, and I needed a distraction from Jen. She looked, smelled, and acted enough like both of them that I could kind of pretend."

"That's why you slept with her. Why did you marry her?"

He glares at Rachel. She smiles back.

"Come on, I'm not stupid, and you aren't either. And we both know you'll sleep with a woman for distraction, but that's not why you'll marry one."

"She wanted to."

"Nope."

"Nope?" He's got a startled look on his face when he asks that.

"Nope." Rachel shakes her head. "You and I are not strangers, we have not just met, and I do not, for one second, believe a man who couldn't be bothered to come home on time for dinner regularly _married_ a woman because she wanted it. Try again. Dig deep. Why did you marry her?"

He hasn't thought about it for years. So he does. Moscow, it was brutally cold and very snowy and lonely and why marry her?

_Oh._

"In '96 Franks left, and I got a new Probie. Stan Burley. Great guy. Good agent. Put up with my crap and then some. Including the fact that I called him Steve for four years just to see if I could piss him off enough to do something about it. In '98 NCIS began to shift its main focus away from crime to anti-terrorism. At that point in time we had nothing in the way of anti-terrorism talent.

"I'm good at languages. Stan's family was well-connected. He was a Senator's aide for years. Law school, all the rest of that. So, they sent us to Europe to head up the new NCIS anti-terrorism squad."

"Europe?"

"Moscow, Paris, Romania, few other places."

"Don't sound like hotbeds of international terrorism."

"Like I said, we weren't the crown jewel of the anti-terrorism world. Anyway, it was '98, and NCIS also wanted a stronger female presence, especially on all of the 'premier' teams. So Stan and I got this new Probie, and that was Jen.

"Stan's not stupid, and he's not blind, so he knew how I felt about Jen. He saw the way I'd watch her. Saw how she'd watch me. Probably had a better idea of what was going on in her mind about that than I did.

"We're in Moscow, and we know we're going to Paris, long mission, at least four months, maybe longer. We know Jen's going, because the couple in love cover works well. What we don't know is which of the two of us is going.

"He was going to go over my head. He'd knew I'd fuck it up. And he was right, I did exactly what he thought I was going to, and we got a few lucky breaks and were able to pull it out of the weeds. But I know it, and Jen knows it, and Stand did, too. In the end it was luck. Because I fucked up and got distracted and put more into her than the mission.

"We were planning the mission, and he's giving me the 'you aren't going to Paris with her' look, and I had a girlfriend, and I knew we were still a few months out, so…

"So, Moscow has, or at least had, the kind of malls where you could buy anything and everything. Stephanie and I were out, and she'd been moping about something, like me missing dinner, so we walk past one of the jewelry stores, and there's diamonds all over the place. She's staring at them. I nod at them and say, 'Pick one out.' Ten days later we were married, and Stan stopped riding me so hard about Jen."

"That's cold."

"It was Moscow."

"Cute. You said Stan had a better idea of what Jen was doing. What did you mean by that?"

"I was the next rung up the ladder, and she was going to climb me however she could. I saw pretty, sassy redhead with…" He realizes he'd kept that sentence going a few words longer than necessary and stops.

"With…"

"Attractive curves—"

She smiles at the way he's censoring himself. "Big boobs?"

"Yes. And some other nice curves, too. Jen was an extremely well-shaped woman. And between being my probie, and so cute, and sexy, and she had this mix of standing up for herself and taking orders and… she had me wrapped around her finger pretty fast."

"And you like women who challenge you, ones you can't have."

"There was that, too."

"She liked me. I liked her. That was real. That'd she'd play up the sex to get the men around her to do what she wanted was true, too."

"And Stan saw that better than you did?"

"Yeah. Probably didn't hurt that he had a serious girl then, made him more immune to big boobs, doe eyes, and sass."

"And it worked for her?"

"It did. There are a few things that every other NCIS director has had in common that she didn't. One of them was twenty-years in. Department head was another. Marine or Navy service. Somehow all those 'rules' vanished when her name got on the list."

"Was she a bad Director?"

He shrugs. "She was herself. She put me in charge for a week while she was at a conference. Great. Message received. Being Director is hard. I get it. So that was fine for the two of us working things out. But, I've never gone higher than Team Leader for a reason. I didn't become an officer for a reason. And we lucked out and nothing too big happened that week. But if something had happened, I wouldn't have been able to handle it, not without pissing off everyone in DC with initials, and not without making the whole agency look bad.

"She was good at people. Running them, building relationships and teams. She was good at politics. She was bad at not getting caught in the little stuff.

"Was she a good Director? I don't know. I think there were things she could have done better, but that's true for everyone. Are you actually asking me if I think she slept her way into that position?"

"Do you?"

"No. But she used her charm to move higher, faster than she would have otherwise. And it's not like she wasn't good. Not like there wasn't substance to go with her looks. But she mixed them together and got a lot further than someone who wasn't as pretty would have."

"A male someone?"

"Sure, or a less attractive female one. She was tiny. And she'd look up at you, big green eyes, and say something unexpected, sharp as a whip, and dead on right, and just use that charm to shape the world around her to the way she wanted it to be."

"How about the other ones you didn't marry?"

"Jen wanted the job a hell of a lot more than me. Elizabeth was… a friend with benefits? That's what Tony'd call it."

"How about Hollis? Were you getting serious with her?"

"We were starting to talk in that direction. She had her twenty-five in, and was thinking of retiring, wanted to know if it'd be worth it for her to stay in DC. I'd said yes. Starting to feel kind of hopeful about it. Like maybe this time it'd work…"

"But…"

"But she found out about my girls, and I'd never said anything, because I thought she knew, and I think she decided I wasn't going to be able to get past it, and next thing I knew she'd moved to Hawaii."

"You didn't talk at all?" Rachel sounds credulous.

"I thought we were going to. She looked at me. I looked back at her. We didn't say anything. She left. I figured that she'd take a day or so and then give me a call. But she didn't. And I caught a hot case. So, eight days later, I finally come up for air, and notice there are no messages on my machine, no emails, nothing. I'd told her that…" he trails off on that.

"Told her what?"

"When she was talking about retiring. I told her I'd be around, that I wanted her to stay. Helped her fix up her place so she'd have a better home for staying. So, she knew I wasn't going anywhere, she knew I was hoping we'd have something. But she didn't call, and I got the message loud and clear. She retired and moved to Hawaii."

"And you never tried to reach her?"

"Didn't know her number. Figured she would have called if she wanted me to find her. It just ended there."

"Was she already moved after a week?"

"No."

"So, you had her number, you just didn't call. A week went by and you just dropped her."

"I think she dropped me."

"So, you're telling me this person you cared about just wandered off and you did nothing about it?"

"Yeah."

"You really want me to believe you just let her go?"

"Yes."

She's building to something, but he's not sure what. "How many other things have you ever just let go?"

He shrugs.

"How about Susan? Did you just let her go, too?"

He thinks about that. "Not exactly. I sent her off."

"What happened? You obviously cared about her. How'd you make the jump from this is good to no more?"

That's a whole lot more recent so it doesn't take long for him to remember the, nope, this isn't right, moment. "Valentine's Day. We're having lunch, and the guys are all talking about their plans. What special things they were getting or doing. Tony was worrying about not having a plan yet. Stuff like that. And I liked Susan. She's sweet and beautiful and kind and just… just a really good person, you know? Just being around her makes you feel good."

"She sounds great."

"She is. She really is. Anyway… The guys are getting their various things ready, and Tony asks what I'm doing, and I… think I didn't answer… brushed it off in a sort of Valentines never works sort of way… which was true, we caught a case and Molly was born. No one got home until the 15th. But I could hear them talking, especially Tim and Jimmy, and they were really into it. Not the hearts and flowers and cuteness stuff, but the doing something to make your woman happy part of it. Even Tony, who told us five hundred times how much he hates Valentine's Day was saying it because he was scared of not doing enough. And I had some plans in motion, we had our Valentines that weekend, and it was nice. But that was it. It was nice. We saw a movie she'd been looking forward to, I made dinner, quiet night in front of the fireplace. It was nice. She liked it. She was happy.

"But I was going through the motions. I was doing something to make her happy, not because I was enjoying her happy, but because I didn't want to make her sad. Tim, Tony, Jimmy, they were all doing things that would make their girls happy, and that happy would make them happy, feed them. All I was doing was avoiding sad.

"I thought about that more, and two weeks later broke up with her. Then spent a few more weeks acting like a bear. Which was when," he taps his ring finger, "that happened."

Rachel thinks about it. "Did making Hollis happy make you happy?"

"Yeah, it did. I repiped her home and put up drywall. Yeah, making her happy made me happy."

"Jethro, did you really not love her, or was she just not Shannon?"

He thinks about that. "I don't know. I'd like to think I'd have gone to see her, or called her, or something, if I had loved her."

"Really? Would you have? On the verge of a functional relationship, something that might work, might make you happy, might threaten the sacred space you hold your love of Shannon in? Another shot at getting your heart ripped out? Do you really think you'd have gone after her if you loved her? Would you have jumped into that again?"

"No."

"Especially after she left without saying anything to you?"

"No."

"Did you love her?"

He closes his eyes and sighs. "Yeah. I did."

"Good."

_Good?_ His look says, disbelieving.

"Good. It's one thing if you can't fall in love, it's another thing if you won't. And won't is a lot easier to deal with than can't."

"Wonderful."

"So, can you guess what this week's homework is?"

"Think about love some more?"

"Yeah. What is love? This time not defined by Shannon. Don't have to write it down or anything, but think about it."

"Okay."


	9. Getting Her Groove On

You fall in love, get married, get pregnant, have a baby, life changes, your body changes, your home changes, everything changes.

It has to.

You can't do all of that and have things stay the same.

And Abby knows that.

There are welcome changes, like Tim curled around her each night, or the feel of Kelly's breath against her breast as she nurses, and there are unwelcome changes.

Like the inch of blond roots peeking out from her black hair.

And yeah, it's not the end of the world or anything. But her hair is one of her defining characteristics. It's black and up in pig tails most of the time. It's dark and cute and perky and just fun.

But she's naturally blonde, and until Kelly was on the outside every two weeks she'd dye it to keep it looking perfect. She's so good at the upkeep that a lot of people don't know that her hair isn't naturally black. It's her own special dye mix, organic, natural, no ammonia, beautiful color that doesn't make her hair feel like straw. None of this right out of the box stuff for her.

It's her hair, and she loves it, and…

But, because it's not the out of the box stuff, and because it's natural and organic and has no harsh chemicals, it takes her two hours every other week to keep it the way she likes.

Two hours she could be doing something else, like sleeping, or Tim.

But it's _her_ hair…

God, she hates this; it feels so whiny. She wants "her" hair. She doesn't want to spend the time she needs to to keep it "her" hair.

Okay, really, it's not the hair. Well, it is… but… It's just the one last straw on the camel's back. Her favorite tattoo is broken, her skin's covered in stretch marks, none of 'her' clothing fits, even though she's only twelve pounds away from her pre-pregnancy weight her hips and boobs aren't even close to the same size they used to be. Even her shoes don't fit properly anymore. (That one kills her. She's probably got fifteen thousand dollars' worth of beautiful boots and shoes, that she spent the last twenty years collecting and they're all at least half a size too small now.) Nothing about her feels the same, so she could at least keep her hair, right?

Breena and Ziva are looking at Abby as she's saying this.

"Could you just dye it less often?" Ziva asks. "The roots aren't very noticeable until they get to be about a quarter inch long."

Abby mopes at that. "I can see them. And it makes me look like my hair's really thin because I end up with what looks like a really wide part."

"Tony uses Garnier to cover his gray. He likes it, and it doesn't take two hours. I am sure they have black."

Abby nods at Ziva's comment. "They do. They all do. But my hair's so fine it feels like straw after I use one of those dyes. And especially with nursing, I don't want to use anything I didn't mix up myself."

Breena's staring at Abby's hair, playing with it a little. "Go blonde. What's your real color? Kind of light honey blonde?" That's what color her roots are.

"Lighter. About the color of your highlights. At least that's what it used to be." She thinks the roots were always this color and it just got lighter as it got longer, but she doesn't really remember. It's been almost thirty years since she dyed it black the first time.

Breena's thinking about that as they sit in Abby's living room. Summer's inching to a close, and once more Labor Day weekend has come around. So, right now, as the guys are outside messing about with the grill and keeping babies entertained, the ladies are inside, taking advantage of the AC, (It's way too hot out there for Breena. At five months pregnant, anything over eighty-five is torture.) and working on making some plans for getting Abby's groove back.

She ruffles her fingers through Abby's hair, feeling how thin it is. "It'll take a lot of bleach to get rid of the black, and that's hard on hair. So, cute, sassy, short little cut, bleach it back to whatever you think it is, and we can fine tune when more of it grows in. Maybe put some pink or blue on the tips, too. When you're out of all babies all the time, you can go black again."

"Cute and short sounds like time getting it cut instead of dyed," Abby replies, twirling one ponytail between her fingers, not loving the idea of chopping them off. Though she finds herself wondering how much of that is not being willing to let go of Kate. Last thing she ever said to her… almost last thing... last thing was about the tattoo on her bum… was how much she liked Abby's hair up in ponytails.

"Yeah, but every other month instead of every other week," Breena answers. "And you go out to have someone else do it so you get some baby-free time where all you have to do is sit around and let someone else take care of you for a while. I don't think you'll have a hard time selling Tim on the idea that you need a Saturday afternoon off every other month."

Ziva smiles. "He will drive you to the appointment himself, smiling."

Breena stares at Abby's hair, runs her fingers through it again, and says, "Actually, the first cut's really only about limiting the damage from the bleach to get your hair lighter. If you don't want that afternoon off, just grow it back out again after the first one."

Abby stands up and heads to their downstairs bathroom, looking at herself in the mirror. "How short are you thinking?" she calls out to the others.

Ziva joins her. Breena stays comfortable on the sofa. She'll be doing enough up and down and chasing Molly around soon.

"Not a pixie cut," Ziva says.

"Noooo…" No way in hell she's doing that. Though it would take care of the dye issue all-together. Cut it that short and it'd just be her natural hair and maybe some tiny little black tips. _That actually might look kind of cool… Okay, no that's insane._ Ten pounds from now, when she can find her cheekbones again, maybe. But right now her face is too round for it.

"Maybe jaw length?" Ziva suggests.

She can kind of imagine that.

"Maybe."

They hear the sliding glass door to the porch open, and the sound of Tim's voice. "Dinner's ready. Got some ladies that want to eat?" He looks at Abby and Ziva a little oddly when they both come out of the bathroom, but doesn't ask about it.

"Do I want to know?" he whispers to Abby a few minutes later while everyone floods into the kitchen to put together their burgers and salad.

"Just talking hair."

"Hers or yours?"

"Mine."

"Really?" That has his interest.

"Yeah."

"What are you thinking?"

"I don't know. Tossing around the idea of short."

He thinks about that and kisses the back of her neck. "I'd like short."

"Yeah?"

"Like long too, and really long, but yeah, short might be interesting. Looks bad, it'll regrow. Not a big deal."

"You'd really like short?"

"I like my mental image of short. If it looks anything like that, I'll like it."

"Hmmm.."

"What are you two conspiring about?" Penny asks, snagging a few more glasses.

"Nothing big."

"Good, get moving, we're waiting on you to eat."

"Yes, Ma'am," Tim replies, and Abby suddenly has a very clear idea of him at eight or nine-years-old being told to hurry up a bit and get to the table.

They get settled and dinner begins, bits and pieces of conversation floating around while Kelly naps and Molly pokes at the little cut up pieces of hamburger she's eating off of Ziva's plate.

Conversation bops around, mostly just family stuff, little bits of work, catching up on the things they've done lately. As burgers, salad, and corn on the cob is cleared off, and strawberry-peach shortcake (sans cake for Jimmy and Tim) was passed around, Kelly starts crying.

Tim heads up to get her, and hears the tail end of, "finally hired a nanny," as he sits down, handing his daughter to his wife.

"Her name is Heather, and she starts on the 15th. Give her a little time to get used to this while I'm still home."

"I met her, didn't I?" Gibbs asks.

"Yep. She was the one telling you about artificial knees."

He rolls his eyes a little at that. _The twelve-year-old._

"So, does that mean you're heading back to work soon?" Penny asks.

"Back on the twenty-first."

"Good, you've got to get them into the shape. They keep working on other teams' evidence," Tony says, half-joking.

"I'll remember to speak severely to them about that," Abby responds, like Tony, half-joking.

"It actually is something of an issue. It's not that they are working on other teams' evidence, it is that they do not seem to grasp the concept of murders take precedence over drug deals, thefts, or money laundering," Ziva adds.

Tim nods at that. "Priorities are a little skewed. They seem to do a sort of first come first served sort of thing."

"And I get the feeling they aren't used to doing much in the way of time sensitive work. I've sent Jimmy down with samples on several occasions, and sometimes they just sit there for a few days."

"They are doing a whole lot more work, too," Jimmy adds, feeling like it's important to get the idea across that the lab staff didn't suddenly triple, have the same amount of work, and were doing it badly. "They're getting everything from all the Afloats, too. But, yeah, we're not getting the sort of personal touch we're used to."

"Then I guess I know what my first job is."

* * *

While they were cleaning up the table, Penny quietly asked Jethro, "Still seeing your new friend?"

"Yeah."

"Finding any clarity?"

He shrugs. "Haven't stopped going."

"Are you getting what you want out of it?"

"Maybe. Thinking about things different, so that's something."

She gives his shoulder a squeeze. "Yeah, it is. Not that I'm planning on blabbing, but, who all knows about this?"

"Haven't said, but I think it's already gone through. Think Tim let the crew knew that was part of Tony and I getting back on the job."

Penny watches Tim and Tony tossing a ball around with Jimmy and Molly through the sliding glass door.

"They look like they're getting along better."

"Yeah. Tony's been watching his step better. Tim's been playing it straight." Jethro had noticed he was wearing jeans today, rather unusual for a hot summer day at home, but… probably keeping things calm between them is a good plan. Let a little more time go by before they start rubbing on each other again. "But sooner or later Tony'll shoot his mouth off or Tim'll do something weird, we'll see how they're actually doing."

"You think it's weird?"

"Yeah, but weird doesn't bug me…" He can see her not believing that. "I'm not letting it bug me. He needs a man who doesn't flip out about stupid stuff, so I'm not flipping out."

Penny smiles at that. "He does. And I'm glad you're willing to be that man."

"Didn't take talking to Rachel to make me decide I was going to be a good dad to my boys."

* * *

NCIS may be closed on Labor Day, but the just about everywhere else, isn't.

So, having dropped boys and babies off at the McGees' house, the girls ventured forth for a girls day out. What started as a haircut for Abby morphed into treat the ladies day when Jimmy looked at Breena and said, 'I'll take Molly over to Tim's, you go out and have fun, too. Don't come back until you've had at least a massage.'

So, with both of them thinking massages and facials to go with Abby's hair transformation, sounded good, Breena just made the appointments for Ziva and Penny, too.

The Gibbs clan ladies were going out, and that was that.

* * *

One of the good things about living in the Capitol City of the US is that it's not hard to find places that will cater to a quad of ladies looking for a nice day out, let alone a nice day out that involves things like haircuts and massages.

Only tricky part was picking where to go.

But Breena took that in hand, and by shortly after 8:30, all four of them were very happy with her choice.

Abby had to admit that getting a reflexology treatment while the black cooked out of her hair was awfully nice.

She was really nervous about the staff here being able to do what she wanted, because they were awfully… vanilla looking. She didn't get the sense that much of the ladies here had any edge, or if they did they kept it well hidden.

But as she described the idea for her hair, short, shag cut, lightened to match her roots, little touches of pink to frame her face, Amanda, her stylist got really excited, and started gushing about the new dyes they got in, taking her in hand and dragging her over to see all the shades they had to play with.

"We never get to use them," she said, gesturing to the close to six different pinks, (they had a similar inventory of blues, greens, and reds, along with a large library of standard hair colors) and holding up a few of them to Abby's face to see how they looked with her hair and eyes. "How about this baby pink, and maybe a touch or two of this rose color?"

"Sure!" she was starting to get excited about this idea of… changing.

* * *

"You know, while we're at it, we could take a stab at your wardrobe," Breena said as they got lunch. "Gonna be a while before you can get back into your jeans and skirts. You're going to need something to wear to work."

Abby kept staring at herself in the mirrored wall behind them. It felt really odd to be able to identify everyone at the table at a glance, besides herself. She also kept turning her head, fast, feeling this new, short hair flip around her neck and jaw.

"They don't really sell the kind of clothing I tend to like here."

Ziva was looking her over. "Maybe you might try some new clothing to go with the new hair. Sort of like how your court wear changed, maybe you could try something less…"

"Me?"

"No, not less you, different you. New armor for new battles. Boss-wear," Breena said, enthusiastically.

Abby looked to Penny, who shrugged. "Do you have any even vaguely appropriate tops that fit?"

"No." Double D nursing breasts were doing everything they could to get out of every top she owned. (Which was why she'd been wearing a lot of Tim's t-shirts lately. Why she was wearing one now.)

"Then you need to get something. But you've got time. Head online and get your old style. Play with the girls and try a new one. Do both. But having spent my entire professional life working with male scientists, I have noticed they tended to be more respectful and more willing to pay attention to what I was saying when I dressed a certain way."

"So that's what you did?" Breena asked.

"Certainly not! I had to dress like a nun to get them to pay attention. I wore whatever the hell I wanted and when they ignored me I shoved my better understanding of the subject down their throats and made them see I was a better engineer than they ever dreamed of being. I intentionally dressed like a woman so they couldn't just sort of pretend I was a small man with long hair.

"But… and this is probably important, I was also not trying to create a harmoniously running department, I was not joining an already up and running team, and for a lot of those years, I was the only female in Biotech anyone had ever heard of, let alone seen. The only thing I was doing was making sure they understood lack of penis did not mean lack of brains."

"Yeah, that's not precisely what I'm going to be doing."

"So, as Breena put it, getting some Bosswear might be in order. At least until you have a better handle on them. Or go all out Goth and make them see that collars and black leather doesn't mean lack of brains, either."

Abby looked from Ziva to Breena to Penny. "What would Bosswear look like?"

* * *

Tim, Tony, and Jimmy were entertaining Molly (naptime for Kelly) when Breena and Ziva and Penny came in. For a second Tim was feeling a bit apprehensive because Abby was lingering outside of view and the three of them were grinning stupidly at him.

Jimmy stood up and kissed his wife. "You guys lose a member of the party?"

"Oh no. We just wanted to be in range to see you respond to the grand unveiling," Ziva answered with a wide and happy smile.

Jimmy looked at Ziva, watching the pleasure on her face, and says, "Ziva, you're a girl."

Tony whacked him. "Really astute, Palmer."

"No. I mean, look, she's grinning, and really happy about a makeover party…"

Tim's aware of the fact that they're chatting about this new revelation that Ziva does indeed appear to like some girly stuff, he's somewhat less aware of Penny's commentary about 'girly stuff' being a social construct. (Ziva liking girly stuff is not, in fact, a revelation to him, he figured it out when he finally saw all of wedding stuff put together. No way you put something that pretty together without being a girl. He, Tony, Gibbs, and Jimmy could have worked on that wedding until the end of time, it still wouldn't have looked that good. Hell, infinite monkeys planning infinite weddings would have gotten that level of elegant, refined prettiness before he, Jimmy, Gibbs, and Tony stumbled onto it. Mainly because, there're fifty-fifty odds that any given one of those infinite monkeys is a girl. What that says as to his belief in the idea that appreciation of girly stuff is a social construct shoved down the throats of baby girls at a young age is probably better left unsaid in the presence of his grandmother.)

No, he's standing there, sort of aware of them talking, of Molly riding Breena's hip, waiting for her to come in. Abby and dress up games has always been one of his favorite things and…

His breath literally caught in his chest. It's just so…

Her hair is short, comes to her jaw at the longest part, and blonde, mostly, bits and pieces around the edges are pink. He doesn't know what that sort of cut is called. Not a bob, but beyond that, he's clueless.

It's cute and playful and flirty and _adult._ That's always been the thing with the pony tails. They're a link to her past, her childhood. They're adorable, but not the mark of a grown up. This is fun, but sophisticated, and so sexy, her whole neck is visible, and the colors perk up her skin and…

"Wow!"

"You like it?" She's looking a little shy as she asks, so he takes two steps, pulls her close and bends her back into a deep, passionate, oh my God! YES sort of kiss.

A bit later, as he was getting both of them standing regularly again, he noticed Breena saying to Jimmy, _"That's_ how you respond to a new haircut."

"Yes, dear." (Apparently 'Yes, dear,' must have had some unspoken context, because Breena gently whacked Jimmy's shoulder, and then he grinned at her.)

He stepped back a bit, and looked Abby over a bit more carefully. "You've got new clothes, too."

That got a smile out of her. "Yeah."

These are a lot closer to her traditional style than the hair is. From what he can tell, it's just a bigger version of the clothing she normally wears.

"Got some work clothing, too."

"Gonna show me?" he asked with a raised eyebrow and a little sexy grin.

"Eventually."

"Ooo…" He was about to say something mildly salacious about how she could show him, but Kelly woke up, so she turned and headed toward her room.

"Let's see if she can figure out who I am."

* * *

Dress up came later that night, after they were on their own.

It's stunningly amazing how much difference a new haircut/color makes. Even in her "regular" clothing (as much of it as she could squeeze into) light hair and different jewelry made some of it look, almost, normal.

Not plain or boring, but… Not nearly so edgy. Some of the less skull bedecked pieces started to look classically professional with the new hair and no cuffs or collars.

And there was the new stuff. Tim could feel the hands of Breena, Penny, and Ziva on those outfits. Granted none of it looked like anything that the three of them would wear, but all of it was vastly more aware of traditional office casual/high end professional wear, with, like everything else, an edge..

He's not sure what kind of skirt it is. Tight. It curves perfectly from her waist to just above her knee, has a little slit up the back so she can walk more easily. She's got it paired with some sort of black shell, and a white blouse and… little black pumps and… just… wow…

"Do you really like it?" She's staring at herself in the mirror, not sure about this change at all.

"Oh yeah."

"Really?"

He steps over to her. "I like anything that shows off your butt." His hands trace from her waist to her thighs. "And anything that puts this luscious curve front and center is good by me. So, snug jeans, those short flirty skirts, whatever this thing is called. Really, I'm awfully easy on this… Booty right there?" He squeezes her gently. "Yep? Happy Tim!"

"It feels really weird."

He nodded at that. "Look, if it's not really you, it's okay. Taking it back isn't a problem, or just using it for court dates. If you wanna go back, that's fine. But playing is good, right? That's what you tell me?" He gestures to himself, kilt, t-shirt, wrist cuff, three new tattoos, and thirty-five fewer pounds. "I don't exactly look like that guy you started dating again back in '12. Not exactly him, either. You still love me. And if you want to go all satin and sophisticated with just and edge of punk, I'm good with that. I'm not going anywhere, and I'm more than happy to play new Abbies with you."

"Feels weird."

He nods at that.

"Good weird?"

"Just weird. I was really into it with the girls, but now… It doesn't look like me."

"Nope. Looks different. Good different."

"I feel really naked in this."

He looked at her curiously. "Naked?"

"Yeah. Like… I'm terrified I'll spill something on myself. My legs and feet are practically bare."

"Oh, literally, naked."

"Yeah."

He headed over to their bed. "How about the trousers?"

They're slim cut, navy, some sort of light-weight wool blend. As he was handing them to her he said, "You know when it fits again, both of these would go with that pink blouse of yours, and you could probably match this with some of your belts and cuffs, and nicer tank tops type shirts."

"Maybe." She pulls off the skirt and begins to wriggle into the trousers. And like with the skirt, Tim was seriously appreciating the cut on them. "Who was picking these out?"

"Mostly Breena and Ziva. Penny kept me from breaking into hives at 'normal clothing.'"

"Remind me to thank Breena and Ziva, and Penny for getting you into it. Weather you ever wear these again or not, they fit really nicely."

"You think so?" She's looking at herself in the mirror critically.

"Maybe I just really like what's under them. Either way, I'm having a good time."

"And that's what matters?"

He shrugged. "At least one of us should be enjoying this, right?"

She laughed at that, shaking her head. "Yeah, I guess so. There's a sort of drapy top that goes with this…"

And Tim headed over to their bed to dig through the bags and find it.


	10. The Dragon Knight and The Alchemist

"How's it going?" Abby asked, looking over his shoulder as his fingers flew over the keys on his computer.

"Just about... done!" He hit the enter key one final time. "And off you go!"

"What are you doing?"

"Well, this time tomorrow, some of Cybercrime is going to notice that they can't get into anything their automatic password service was handling, and that they've been logged out of said service, and their meta password has changed."

"Ewww!"

"Yeah. Shouldn't cripple anyone, but it'll be annoying. If they're on the ball my worm won't be able to crawl on in, if they aren't... expect lots of cursing from the basement tomorrow."

She smiles at that. They heard Kelly start crying, asking for her second supper. "So, wanna play tonight?"

That made him smile. "I'm all in favor of that."

"Good. I'll get Kelly. You get all pretty for me. Be in bed, waiting for me, when I get done."

He was grinning at that. "Gonna define pretty?"

She looked him up and down, remembering his battle gear, and how, fight or not, she liked the way it looked. "Naked, eyeliner, nail polish, collar, wrist cuffs out but not on."

He gave her a quick kiss, wanted to do a long, slow one, but Kelly's getting pretty insistent about get-me-now. "I like your idea of playtime."

"Good."

"How do you want me on the bed?"

She thought about that for a second. "Kneeling, hands crossed behind your back."

Tim smiled at her. Yep, this was an excellent idea for not playtime.

* * *

Feeding Kelly had streamlined down to only forty-five minutes, which was… tight. He rubbed his face, and yeah, he needs to shave. Normally he'd have waited until morning, but he's fairly sure that she'll appreciate smooth.

And it's not like it takes him long to shave. But shave, nails, and eyeliner, that's a different proposition.

So, yeah, tight. He was hopping up the stairs two at a time, Abby smiling at him, looking really amused by how eager he was.

Okay, clothing went off first, that was easy and took about twenty-six seconds. Can't do anything while his nails dry, so they have to be last. Shave first, don't want to mess up the eyeliner. And a plan was born.

Shaving, easy enough, he did that all the time. Eyeliner, he tried to do it too fast and had to wash it off and start over again, twice. On the upside, he had got the smudgy, rock and roll, guyliner thing Abby liked down. Sure, it was an accident, and he was thinking he might look slightly more like a raccoon than he have liked to, but only slightly.

He stared at it for a few more seconds, debated taking it off again, but a quick check on the clock said his nails weren't going to be dry if he didn't book, so, collar.

There was a sort of calm that went with wearing it, but that was the point, really. Well, partially. Part of the point was ownership, which was true enough. He is Abby's, always will be, and just like the ring and the tattoos, the collar reinforced it. Part of it was the sign of submission, and since that was what he was playing tonight, it was appropriate. Part of it, which for him was the most difficult part, was the headspace, the full surrender, and like putting it on evoked a certain sort of calm, it was supposed to help him get into that headspace. And it wasn't that he had a hard time with submitting, that part of the headspace was easy enough, it was quieting everything else, focusing solely on Abby and his desire to please her.

He always had an easy time with following orders and rules, especially the sorts of rules she was going to be laying down for him. But the ability to let all the little background voices drop away, to exist solely in the space of her words and the sensations of his body, that was a lot harder to catch.

He pulled it snug, looking in the mirror to buckle it, and then twisted it so the buckle was in the back. And while he might want to think about it more, he's got two more jobs to do.

Okay. Nail polish. It didn't take him long to put on, but it did take long to dry properly. He'd been told (by Abby) that the non-matte polishes dry faster, but he couldn't see having shiny nails. Black matte is cool. Shiny black isn't. And no, he couldn't explain why.

Three minutes to go. Kneeling. Usually kneeling on the bed meant his butt on his feet, body facing the door. He assumed the position and then jerked up. He'd gone to get the shading done on his Father's Day tattoo on Saturday and sitting all of his weight onto his calf stung pretty bad.

He'd just gotten settled into kneeling up, hands crossed at the wrists behind his back, when he realized the wrist cuffs were still in the toy box.

Another quick move, put them on the bedside table, kneeling again, and…

And less than thirty seconds later, he heard the door to Kelly's room shut.

* * *

His head was bowed, but he heard her stop at the door to their room, could feel her looking, could feel his body respond to her look, not getting hard, not that fast, not just from her looking, but longer and fuller, oh yeah. Knowing she was enjoying him on display like this always does that.

He was aware of her footsteps, very quiet, bare feet on carpet, and could track her circling around him, looking from all angles, making sure he'd done exactly as she asked.

He thought she was pleased, had the sense of a smile even though he couldn't see her face right now.

He heard her moving again, and the sound of her hands on something plastic, phone probably, and then music, his: smooth, soft, lush jazz, filled the room.

Another step, from the dresser where his phone was to the side of the bed. Her fingers trailed down his hip, along his thigh, and then, brushed, lightly, so lightly, sending a burning itch though his leg, over the dragon tattoo.

"Dragon Knight. Captured in Cyrmu. Battle of Pontypandy. We know from your clan marker," she traced her fingers over his cuff tattoo, "That you're one of the McGees."

He didn't smile. He wanted to smile, this'll be fun, not what he was expecting with the collar, but definitely fun.

"They tell me we've had you for five days, and no one's been able to make you speak."

He kept his head bowed, aware of her moving around him, around the bed, picking up the wrist cuffs.

"They say you take orders, so we know you understand, but you won't say anything."

He didn't respond, head down, posture relaxed and loose.

"They tell me they aren't even sure if you can speak. Of course, Dragon Knight, you wouldn't need to, the link with your dragon was psychic. And if you're the McGee we've been looking for… Well, you don't need to know which one of you we want."

She knelt behind him, securing his wrists to each other. "Comfortable?"

He still didn't respond.

"Doesn't matter much one way or another. It's my job to find out if you can speak. And if you can, it's my job to find out who you are. And from there… Well, we'll get there. Stand up, off the bed."

It was awkward to go from kneeling to standing on the bed without hands, but he did, and then stopped right next to the bed, head still bowed. He can see her feet and legs up to her hips, and while she was wearing a pair of his drawstring jammy pants when she went in to feed Kelly, they were gone now, replaced by her black robe with the cherry blossoms.

"They're right; you're very good at following orders." Abby pointed to right under the hook in the ceiling, still currently providing a place for the plant. But he had a good idea of how this was going to go and what would happen depending on how good of a job he does at 'resisting interrogation.'

He stood where he was directed to, and heard her head to the toy box, where the chain they use to tie the wrist cuffs to that hook is, along with the ropes.

"Five days is a long time to go without making a sound."

He couldn't see what she had gotten, but he didn't hear any clinking so that leaned toward a rope, or a toy, but not the chain. If it was a toy, she might have picked this spot just because of the good view from the mirrors.

"But you would be good at it, wouldn't you?" She put something on the bed, outside of his circle of vision. "Can't be a dragon knight without a strong mind, strong magic. The dragons eat you alive if you can't dominate them." She stepped closer to him, tilted his head up so he was looking in her eyes.

Looking up he wanted to smile, but didn't. _Sir… whoever he is… Gabriel, Gabriel McGee, Lord of… he was probably supposed to be Irish. Cyrmu is Wales, right? Donegal. Lord of Donegal. Is Donegal a city? Doesn't matter. Sir Gabriel wouldn't be smiling. Captured Dragon Knights don't smile at their captors. Okay, Dragon Knight, but what was he, where did he fit? Captured for interrogation, has to be a high value captive. Has to have information worth this set up... Commander of the… hell… dragons… what sort of dragon… Hungarian Horntails? No. Irish… Nightfuries? They're Viking dragons... Still better than Hungry. Besides, there's only outlining and shadows on the calf tattoo, so right now it is a black dragon. Won't be green until the final run through. Good. _ Character set, he just had to keep it somewhere in his mind so he could whip it out when he needed it.

Holding his gaze, Abby said to him, "So, Dragon Knight, you must be used to being in charge, to giving orders and having people obey your every command." She grinned and stepped behind him, and he felt her tie something to the collar, ribbon maybe, didn't feel thick enough to be rope, and then she reached up, removed the plant, and after grabbing the footrest that went with the easy chair in the corner, tied whatever it is to the hook.

Okay, that was new. They'd never tried tied by his neck. He tentatively shifted a bit, getting the sense that he had about a half foot range of comfortable motion, before his collar'll get too tight. He checked the view in the mirror, it is ribbon, not very thick, and he was certain it couldn't hold his weight. If he let his body drop, it would snap. No chance of him strangling on this.

"I imagine this will be very different for you. Not being in charge. Taking orders rather than giving them." She traced her hand over his chest, stopping for a second to circle a nipple, pull gently on it. "The order is simple, answer my questions."

He looked down again, away from her gaze, not answering.

"Not feeling chatty, huh?" She sighed dramatically. "Eyes up, watching me." He looked up to follow her with his eyes. "Do you wonder, Dragon Knight, why we're still feeding you? Do you wonder why you've been asked questions, and yet not touched? You must know most interrogations don't happen to prisoners who are well-kept, well-fed, let alone in a sumptuous bedroom, or handled by a beautiful woman."

He blinked, slowly, at her. Just acknowledging that he heard her.

She strolled around him, moving deliberately, each step making her hips and breasts sway enticingly. He tracked her nipples, subtle points under her robe, and made a gleeful note of the fact that she'd taken her bra off.

"They say the Dragon Knights maintain a psychic bond with their mounts. That in order to do that they have to be strong in both magic and will power." She was directly behind him, and he was looking into her eyes in her reflection on the mirror on the bathroom door. "I don't know if that's true." Her fingers trailed very gently, just the tips, down his spine, skipping over where his hands were bound behind his back, ghosting down the cleft of his ass, and then skittering over the back of his upper thigh. "What I do know is that it's vastly easier, and tidier to make a man talk by offering him something he wants, than it is to try and scare or beat him into compliance."

She breathed against his shoulder, biting gently.

"Especially men like you. We could deny you water," soft, wet kiss on his throat, just below the collar, "but you'd just conjure it for yourself. Same with food. We could try pain," another very light stroke over the tattoo, another slow burn itch, "but you'd just pull your mind away from it." Her hands slipped down his sides, settling on his hips. "You must know that we've already broken fifteen Dragon Knights looking for a successful way to interrogate you. After all, the dragons report back when their masters die. So, you must know of the others."

He glared at her. Eyes narrow, trying to project pissed-off-captive, and probably not doing a great job of it, after all, it's not like he's an actor.

"But dead Knights yield no information. And we want information quite a bit more than corpses. Corpses are only good for manuring the fields. Information on the other hand, is power. And power is victory." She gave him a gentle slap on the ass.

"And you must know about the other three. Still missing. The Dragons must have reported back that they are not yet dead. In fact, you've probably been getting… confusing… reports back from the dragons about the other three. About how they don't want to be rescued any longer.

"So, you've been held, questioned, given food and drink, offered a soft and warm place to sleep. All in preparation for this."

He raised an eyebrow, signaling, _'What's this?'_

"Still not talking… How disappointing. Did you notice, Dragon Knight, that though you've been offered a comfortable billet, provided with good food, and treated to the most gentle of interrogations, but that the only time you've been given free use of your hands is when someone else has been around? Likewise, you've been kept in certain positions, comfortable I'm sure, but limiting your access to certain bits of your anatomy?" Her hand stroked lightly over his dick, which wasn't full hard yet, but was certainly getting there.

"Five days without release is a long time for you, isn't it?"

He didn't respond to that, but did try to rub himself against her hand.

She stepped back. "Oh no. On my terms. Not yours. We know you checked your food and drink for poisons."

He looked surprised at that.

"Yes, our casters are good enough to monitor what magics you use. You didn't think to check for aphrodisiacs."

He gave her a _those aren't real_ look.

"Aren't they? Haven't you been feeling more,_ eager_, than usual. Waking up harder, dreaming more intensely, wishing for just a moment or two alone with your hands. Or maybe wishing you could roll onto your stomach and take care of it by rubbing up against those nice soft sheets in your comfortable billet." She pointedly looks down at his dick, which was full hard now. "You're certainly looking interested in sex." She stepped close, and inhaled against that spot where neck becomes shoulder. "I can smell the desire on you." Her hand slipped over him again, base to tip in a long pull. "Maybe aphrodisiacs aren't real. Maybe it's just been a long time for you." Another long pull. "Or maybe, Sir Knight, every drop of water you've drunk, every bite of food, that gentle scent you thought was incense, maybe all of that was designed specifically to wear you down, lower your will, just a hair at a time," she whispered against his jaw.

"Dragon Knight, have you guessed yet who I am, yet?" she asked with a kiss to his ear.

He tilted his head a bit, indicating he had a pretty good idea.

She licked her lips, and then leaned in and licked his, tongue slipping slow and easy over his bottom lip, followed by her teeth giving it a gentle pull.

"Lady Skye," whispered against his ear, fingers of her one hand trailing down his chest, fingers of the other wrapped around his dick, providing a gentle, warm squeeze, "Mistress of the Alchemical Guild. Or, as I'm known in a few, select circles, King William's Encyclopedia. When he wants to know something, he asks me, and I always get the answer."

He bowed his head and shoulders as much as he could given the tie on his neck.

"Courtly politeness." She laughed at that, letting go of him, stepping back. "You Dragon Knights are amusing."

He smiled widely at her, keeping his eyes hard, head tilted in acknowledgement.

"So Sir Knight, let's start here, what is your name?"

He shook his head.

"Playing hard to get? Probably a good gambit." She stepped in closer, lips whispering over his, "After all, if you talk immediately, you don't get to see what happens." Her tongue darted out, slipping between his lips, and he leaned in toward her, as far as he could, kissing her back. After a second of her body, warm and rubbing gently against his, she stepped back. "And I think we'll both enjoy this quite a bit more, if it takes you a while to break."

He tried to convey, _not a problem, I can go all night_, in a look. He's not sure how successful that was, but she giggled at it and said, "Yes, we've all heard the stories of the Dragon Knights' incredible stamina." She took his cock in hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Though if memory serves those stories usually have a lot more to do with fighting all day and all night and all the next day. That you take strength from your dragons to keep going and going. But your dragon isn't here. And besides, they lay eggs, so I'm not sure how handy your link will be for this."

He shrugged.

"What, have you never tested it?"

Another shrug.

"Really? No words at all?" She asked while pulling her hand up his dick.

He shook his head again, but thrust in counter point to her hand, enjoying the friction quite a bit. She loosened her grip but sped up, lighter, softer friction. Almost too light.

"Do you like this?"

He shrugged. _It's okay, _on his face.

"You could tell me how to do it better. Tell me exactly how you like to be handled, and who knows, you may get it."

He smiled at that, gestured with his eyebrows _come closer, _tilted his head forward, like he was going to whisper into her ear, and when she moved closer to listen, he kissed her ear, licking over the shell, and gently biting the lobe.

She pulled back, amused look on her face. "That's how you're going to play?"

He nodded.

She let go of him and stepped back to the bed. "Do you like to watch, Dragon Knight?"

He nodded enthusiastically at that, too.

"Know what this is?" She said, reaching for the toy she placed on the bed, letting her right shoulder slip out of her robe.

He nodded, very pleased to see that. That was a glass dildo. It didn't get out of the toy box all that often these days. It's aesthetically pleasing, great for a show, but too hard and thick for serious play, especially on him. And these days, toys that they can't both play with tend to spend all their time in the box.

"Man of the world then?" She was holding it between her palms, rubbing it gently, robe having fallen off of both shoulders, but still keeping her breasts and everything below covered. "Not all of your brothers were so well traveled."

She continued to rub it between her palms and then said, "James McGee? Subcommander of William McGee's strike force. Second son of the Lord of Waterford?"

He shook his head, wondering where she came up with that, and then remembered that Waterford is a place in Ireland known for glass.

She held it out tip first. "Lick it."

He kept his mouth shut, raised an eyebrow, and gave her his best, _I don't think so_ look while shaking his head.

She lay it back down on the bed, and turned to him, letting her robe drop to the floor.

She let him look his fill, and he did, trailing his eyes up and down her, lingering in a very obvious way on her curves.

"You know, I should be insulted. Here I am naked, and you say nothing. I'm beginning to think you might not like this." She reached for her robe, and he shook his head vehemently, feeling the pull of the collar against his throat.

"Nope. Not good enough." She began to slip the robe back on.

A soft whimper escaped from between his lips.

"So, you can make sounds! There's a step in the right direction. Every time you cooperate, you get rewarded." She dropped the robe, and settled back onto the bed, legs wide, letting him look all he liked. Another soft whimper of appreciation followed the first.

She picked up the dildo, trailing it over the skin of her thigh, stroking it against her pussy.

"Wet glass is so slick. It just glides over everything. Slips into nice, tight places so easily." She continued to stroke it up and down, gently over herself, watching his eyes following her every move.

"It'd be so much easier if it was wet. You'd like that, wouldn't you? Get to see me slip it inside?" She licked her lips. "You'd like to know it was wet with you. Your tongue getting it all slick so it could just ease inside and spread me wide."

She lifted it away, and he saw a faint thread of her natural lube stretch between the tip of the toy and her.

That got yet another whimper as she stood up, once again holding out the dildo, and said, once more, "Lick."

This time he did. Tongue darting out, lapping her taste off of it, adding his saliva to it.

"Like the taste, Dragon Rider?"

"Mmmmm…."

She smiled at that, trailed a finger between her pussy lips, and then lifted it to his mouth, letting him suck it off.

"You're very good at that, Sir Knight. Are you used to sucking? You swing both ways?"

That got a quick glare.

"Pity. I like men who can give as well as get. They're so much fun."

She settled back onto the bed and began to play with the dildo again, stroking the whole length of the dildo up her clit in a slow, slick slide. "So much better with it all wet. The next question, Dragon Knight, is can you talk?" She shifted her grip, using the tip to circle over her again and again, then slipping down, dipping between her lips, but not penetrating.

He made another frustrated sound at that.

"You'd like to be this dildo wouldn't you? Your cock slipping hot and wet between my lips." She pressed the dildo in, slowly, making sure he had a great view of it as it slid into her. "You can imagine how good it would feel, can't you…"

God, yes he can, he can imagine it, and remember it, and feel it on his skin, and he's trusting against nothing right now, just at the idea.

"Is that a good speed for you?" She matched his movements with her own, speeding up a bit. Abby moaned, soft and low and wicked, and the sound of it ripped through him, pumping up his own excitement. "Oh… It's a good speed for me."

Then she lifted the toy to her mouth, sucking it, licking the tip, and sucking again. "Or maybe those lips, want to slip between them?" That got another groan from him. "Or maybe…" she slipped it down her body, dragging it over her skin, over her clit, between her lips, and down to just rest at her anus. "Maybe there… Would you like to have me there."

"Yes." It came out as a low groan. _God yes, please, let's do that, now!_

She smiled brightly. "You can talk! Excellent! What's your name, Dragon Knight? I don't bed a man until I know his name."

She pressed the toy against herself, easing it, so slowly, forward. Not really penetrating, just pushing a bit. "Good choice. So hot and so tight. You've never, ever felt anything that tight." She twitched her pelvic muscles. "And I know how to ripple, how to squeeze and flex. You've never even imagined feeling anything so good as me."

He groaned again, stepping the half foot forward, closer to her.

"You are eager aren't you? All you have to do is tell me your name. Which McGee are you?"

That got another torn sounding whimper. He wants to get off, bad. Wants to keep playing, too. So he keeps holding it together, reminding himself of his name, but not saying it. Not yet.

She stood again, dropping the dildo, and he whimpered again. _Keep doing that! _very clear on his face.

"No, Sir Knight. You like it. I can see that. But you're not broken yet. I think you need something more persuasive."

She knelt elegantly. Sinking to the floor, holding him, firm, licking gently and then taking him to the root, until her chin rested against his balls and he was whimpering.

Two minutes, three? She set a quick, deep, pace, all the way up and all the way down, and fast. Fast enough his balls were crawling up, and his legs and back were tense, wanting to cum, wanting to thrust, wanting to fuck harder and faster.

Then she let go, pulled off him, looked up, and said, "Did you like that Dragon Knight? Do you want me to finish? All it takes is a name. Just a few syllables, and I'll swallow you again, work you with my lips and tongue and hands…" she licked the tip, rubbing the flat of her tongue along the underside, while her hand jacked him, slow and steady.

He groaned again.

She blew on the tip, mouth hovering just over it. "Maybe that's not enough? Maybe you don't just want my mouth." She opened her mouth, holding it around his dick, letting him feel the moist heat, and soft breath, but not closing her lips or sucking.

"Do you want to mark me, Dragon Knight? See your seed on me? Striping my face and chest." She licked him again, and this time closed her mouth over the tip of his dick, sliding down again, starting up that quick pace again pushing him closer and closer to the edge, and he could feel his climax building, that less than thirty seconds from falling over the cliff sensation in his dick and balls, the almost ache of being so close. And there she stopped. "It just takes a name. What's your name, Dragon Knight?"

"Gabriel!" he gasped out, very glad he'd already picked that because there had been absolutely no shot of him making it up on the fly. "Gabriel McGee, Lord of Donegal, Commander of The Nightfuries."

"Excellent, Gabriel." She stood up and he whimpered. Her standing up was not part of the deal. Kneeling down and finishing him off was the deal. Her standing up and walking away was really not part of the deal. She headed for the nightstand and opened it, getting the lube.

Okay, that looked good. He wasn't sure what she was going to do with it, but as long as it involved him getting off soon, he was all in favor of anything involving lube.

"Do you want to come?"

"God, yes!"

"Excellent." She was smiling widely at him. And once again she knelt, and he thought he knew what was coming next, adjusted his stance, shifting his legs further apart so she'd have good access, but apparently that wasn't her game.

She took his dick in hand again, and blew all over it, making sure her saliva had dried, and then took the bottle of lube, flicked open the cap, and carefully dribbled a few drops over the head of his dick, making sure they were full enough to slide down his shaft.

He groaned at that slow, meandering drip.

Then she stood again. "So excellent. So marvelous to have someone so eager. So, ready… and…" she squeezed gently and a drop of pre-cum oozed down his dick following the path of the lube, "so wet."

Her voice slipped over his ear, hot against his neck, as she stepped behind him and started with slow strokes to spread the lube and his pre-cum over his dick. "It'd be so easy. Just a few quick pulls and you'd be spurting, hot and wet and sticky all over my hand. Making a mess on my nice, clean carpet. But that's for… common information. Say, confirmation of something we already know."

He groaned, voice low. Half from sexual frustration, half trying to think of anything that could possibly qualify as 'good information.'

"Now, for good information, say something we don't already know, I'll release your hands from the chains, can't unbind them fully, can't risk you running off, but I'll unchain you, let you lay down on my nice, soft bed, and then let you lick me." Long, slow pulls, all the way up and all the way down, and he was thrusting into her hands, all six of his brain cells that weren't entirely devoted to getting off flailing away for some sort of story for her. "You like pussy, right? Succulent, wet, pussy, right on your lips. Your tongue deep inside."

A pained breath hissed out of him.

"Oh, come now, are you not talking again? I thought we'd gotten past that. Do I need to go back to where we began? Say, let go of you all together? Leave you standing there, so hard, so full, so… needy." She started to pull her hands away.

He had to buy more time, because he's coming up with nothing. "What do I get for excellent information? Something you can't find out for yourself?"

That got a wide smile, and a stronger, faster stroke. "If you give me information I truly can't find out for myself, something useful and secret, I'll tie you down on my bed, let you eat all the pussy you want, and then slide down your body and ride you like one of your dragons."

Another groan. He tried to look torn, because Gabriel would be torn, but hell, he wanted to fuck, and mostly was just trying to think of anything that would work with the game. Finally something hit, and he spit it out, fast.

"Lord Ashworth has been spying for us for three years," came out fast, in one quick breath.

Abby smiled at him in the mirror, chin on his shoulder. "Oh… I like that." Her hand pulled faster over his dick and he could feel his climax building, wouldn't take much to push him over, but this wasn't how he wanted this to play out.

"No!" gasped out. "That's not common information!"

"Are you sure?" her hand slowed, back to that keep-him-on-edge pace. "At least half a dozen people on our side know about Ashworth."

"Like fuck they do. We wouldn't have thrashed your men at London and Cadbury if you'd known about the intel he was sending us. If you know he's a spy, fine, but you don't know what intel he's sending us."

She let go of him, and that also got a groan. "That is… compelling." He felt her undo the right cuff from the left one, and then she said, "Hands in front of you."

He did, and she recuffed them to each other, and then undid his collar, leaving it dangling from the ceiling.

"Onto the bed, Sir Gabriel, Lord of Donegal."

He sat, and then lay down, and she recuffed his hands into the slats of their headboard.

"Something so wonderfully delicious about a bound and hard man. It's just… fabulous." She licked gently up his thigh. "You like it, too, don't you? Need, desire, shame, it all wraps together, makes you so hard, so eager." Another lick, this time over his testicle and up his dick. "Mmmm… Nothing on earth tastes so good as a bound knight."

She straddled his hips, and moved up his body, stopping when she straddled his shoulders. "Well, Sir Gabriel, we know you can talk with that tongue, can you do anything else with it?"

He started with a long, wide swipe of his tongue, getting a little bit of everything from top to bottom, and then went to town. He was turned on enough that he doesn't want to linger on this. He wanted her riding him, hard and fast and now, and for the first time in a while, he was noticing that she's wet, really wet, maybe not dripping, but good and slick.

He focused in on her clit, fast little circles, over and over and over, keeping the pressure light at first, waiting to feel her hips roll against him in counter point before pushing up against her. She moaned at that, gripping his hair, and he grunted in response, liking the way she was sounding very much, feeling it go straight to his cock.

She started moving faster, harder, having a more difficult time holding a rhythm, but he kept pace with her, he knew this dance, loved it, and in a minute, she was shuddering over him as he switched to light, gentle, come down licks.

Abby leaned against their headboard, breathing hard. "Sir Gabriel, I don't think we're ever going to ransom you. You're way too much fun to let go."

He smiled at that. "Are you saying you want me for your own personal harem, my lady?"

"There's a thought. I'm sure King William would let me have you as a pet." She leaned over to the night stand, and fished out a condom. He was already slick with lube, so she didn't add any to the condom before slipping it down him and saying, "Would you like that? My personal plaything? Available whenever I want you."

She glided her pussy over him a few times, letting him grind against her.

"I can think of worse jobs."

"I'm sure you can." She lifted up a bit, getting the angle right, and then slid down onto him in one long stroke.

"Ohhh…" escaped him in a slow exhale. "Uhhhh…" followed as an inhale as she rose up.

She set a slow pace, and he didn't know if that's still getting used to post-baby sex, or playing the role, but it was driving him crazy. He thrust up against her, and didn't see any pain or discomfort on her face when he did it, so he was thinking slow was the role, but either way she rested her hands on his hips.

"Oh no, Sir Gabriel. I decide when you come. And right now, you haven't earned it, yet."

His brain was melting, one slow stroke at a time, and he was coming up blank on anything that might work for the game, but he knew he wanted to go faster, had to go faster, needed to get off, this was starting to hurt. So he got his feet flat on the bed, knees up, (Abby squeaked in surprise when he did it, falling forward a little, hands landing on his shoulders, and then snuck down for a quick kiss, breaking character for a moment.) and thrust up.

"Only so long you can tease, lady." Another hard thrust, forcing her forward, this time, though, she arched back into it, moaning. Her hands were on the bed, either side of his head, and he turned his head and nipped at her wrist. "Before the dragon'll bite."

It was more difficult to set the pace from the bottom, but difficult wasn't impossible, and he was so hard by then, so turned on. He used his legs for extra leverage, raising her up on his hips with each fast, hard thrust, and she was slamming down on top of him, groaning on each down stroke, tightening deliciously against him as everything besides the feel of her body on his faded away, wiped out by rushing, pulsing pleasure.

* * *

They were both lying there, happy, warm, comfortable, Abby's head resting against his shoulder.

"You know. Gibbs hasn't been able to break this last suspect yet. He spent eight hours with her in interrogation and she said nothing. Maybe I need to try your technique."

Abby laughed. "Head in all naked and sexy, and see if you can seduce it out of her?"

"Why not?" he said with a giggle.

She sat up, slapped his shoulder lightly, grabbed a tissue, and wiped them both up, tossing the condom in the trash, then uncuffed his hands. He stretched out his shoulders.

"Mmmmm… Good game. That your plan all along?"

"Nope. Saw the tatt and decided to run with it," she said, heading for their bathroom. A minute later she was back in their bed, lying on her side, him spooned up behind her.

He said to her, feeling sleepy, "Definitely going to be another chapter of that story."

She lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it.

A few minutes after that, they both checked out from the waking world.


	11. Having It All

A/N: I know some of you are reading both versions of Shards, so, to make it a bit easier, when the content of the chapter is unchanged between the versions the title of the chapter will be the same. If the content is different, the title will be different.

* * *

"Gibbs?"

"Abbs?" He looks up from Anna Palmer's crib. He's gotten all the pieces cut, now it's time to start putting them together.

"Hey."

He glances around briefly, but doesn't see or hear anyone else. "So…"

She sits on the second from the bottom step. "I don't know how to be the Boss. I'm not sure I even want to be the Boss."

Gibbs smiles at that and sits next to her, wrapping his arm around her. "Trust me, Abbs, you know how to be the Boss. You've scared interns into wearing bells in your lab. You'll get those three whipped into shape."

"That's not being the Boss… That's not leading. That's just being scary."

Gibbs gives her a _if it gets the job done_ look.

"These are professionals. They're good at their job. They deserve respect, and I can't just threaten or pout at them until they toe the line."

"You want a team of equals."

"Benedict technically is. He ran his own lab for seven years. Only reason I'm in charge is seniority."

"And you're a better scientist."

That gets a smile out of Abby and a kiss on Gibbs' cheek.

"Leon knows his job. If you're still in charge, it's not because you've been around longer. He's got no problem shuffling people around if it'll work better."

Abby leans against him. "How do I do this?"

Gibbs shrugs. "Takes a long time to get a good team. And all the leadership on Earth isn't gonna help without the right people. But, first of all, there are no teams of equals. One of you is going to lead. You can be… conciliatory. You can be like Jen, building alliances and teams, but someone is going to make the decisions at the end of the day. And that's gonna be you."

"I don't like being in charge."

Gibbs tilts his head at her in a sort of _really, you're gonna try that with me_ look.

"Not saying I don't want things the way I want them, or like them exactly right, but… That's not leading. That's not being in charge. That's me forcing every assistant I've ever had out because I can't stand working with someone else for more than a few hours at a time."

She looks up.

"I'm a prima ballerina in the lab, and the ballerina's only in charge of her own dance. She does it perfectly, but she's only responsible for herself. And now I've got to learn to be the director and choreographer and make everyone work."

"Yep."

"How am I going to do that?"

"One day at a time, Abbs. Keep remembering the point of the ballet, and let the other dancers do their thing so you can get through it."

* * *

Seven AM to seven PM. At least, that's the idea of how it'll go for now. Tim and Abby are both hoping that eventually they can get their schedules wrangled well enough to make sure that at least one of them will be home every day around five.

Mostly because twelve hours a day five days a week is a long week. Add in commute time on top of it, and it's a really long week.

But, for now at least, those are Heather's hours.

And she seems happy to be working them.

Abby's not actually going back for three more days. Right now, they're both home so Kelly's not just getting dumped into someone new's hands as Abby goes sprinting out the door.

The idea is that she's taking a back seat, letting Heather get the hang of dealing with Kelly, learning where everything is and how they run their home.

That's the idea at least.

She's honestly not sure which is going to be harder, sitting back and letting a stranger take care of her child, or trying to run her other baby with all those new people in it.

Every time Kelly chirps she wants to leap up and grab her from Heather.

And it's not even that Kelly seems to be having a bad time. Actually, as much as you can tell with a baby, Kelly seems to be doing fine. (She's not crying any more than she usually does.) Heather doesn't seem to be struggling, either. They're getting on fine. Learning each other, but fine.

And not swooping in and taking care of it is killing her.

"Mrs. McGee—"

"Abby."

"Abby. This part is always hard. I've got her schedule. I've got your number. I'm sure you've got cameras somewhere so you can do a spot check. How about you head out for a bit, get some lunch or something? This'll go easier for all of us if Kelly and I get some time alone."

And sure, that's logical, that makes sense, but she still wants to rip her hair out as she heads off.

* * *

"Okay. I know this needs to happen. I know I don't want to be home with her all the time. I know I'm starting to go buggy on laundry and nursing all the time, but how do you do this? How do you leave your baby with a stranger?"

Breena looked up from the lady she's embalming. "You just do it. And it sucks, and you visit fifty times the first day, and you cry more than the baby does, but you do it. But eventually it gets easier and you get used to it, and you don't feel so beaten down when you are in charge, don't feel like baby care is an unending run of hours and hours of mindless nothing which means you enjoy being with her more when you're with her."

"What if I don't want to get used to it?"

"Well, you better, or you'll be going to college with her, and she won't appreciate that, and neither will Tim."

"Yeah." Abby picked listlessly at the edge of the embalming table (currently empty) that she was leaning against.

Breena tied the knot on the final stitch closing the incision that would keep the cotton she'd packed into the corpse's torso in place. "All done Mrs. Callum. We'll get you all dressed up and ready to go soon. Your daughter tells my mom that you love the dress they picked out for you."

"Ducky does that, too."

"Talks to the clients. Of course. They're humans, so you've got to talk to them. If you stop talking to them you'll start treating them like things."

Abby nodded at that as Breena straightened up, and gently stroked Mrs. Callum's face.

"Your parents died when you were still in the breaking away from them part of life, right?"

"Sort of. The end of it. I was still swinging between wanting lots of hugs and vastly too cool to be in the same hemisphere with them."

"I remember those days. It'll get easier, it really will, and it's something you've got to do. Maybe not this early, not if you don't want to, but… That's the job, we hold them for a little while and then send them off."

"Great." Abby looked remarkably unenthusiastic about that.

"How long have you been out of the house?"

Abby checked her phone. "Thirty-six minutes."

"Okay, come on, give Heather a call, and then we'll go get some lunch."

And yes, Skyping with Heather and Kelly for two minutes, just to see that she was indeed sleeping peacefully felt stupid as all get out, but it also helped. Made it easier to head off to lunch. She checked back in at the end of lunch too, and saw Kelly getting a bottle, looking just fine.

Kelly was still awake when Abby got home, so there was snuggle time, which felt very, very good. (She's getting a better sense of why most nights Tim makes a bee line to Kelly for snuggles as soon as he can.) And Kelly seemed very happy to see her, too. Which was also good.

But… but maybe it hurts a little that someone else can do this, can make her little girl happy and keep her safe and…

And maybe she wants to be the only one, but she doesn't, because she can't, because this will drive her buggy if it's all she's doing… and… and she just doesn't know.

So, she goes on, stowing the breast milk she pumped in the fridge, putting Kelly down when it was naptime, letting Heather get her when she woke up, then nursing. And she tried to burn this into memory, tries to make it last, knowing it can't and won't, feeling… she wasn't sure what this feeling was, just that it was here and real.

And then she started to figure out what to do tomorrow. Because like Gibbs said, one day at a time. And tomorrow, even though it's not her first day back, she was thinking it'd be a good plan to drop into the lab and just get a feel for what's going on.


	12. Of Triage and Dragons

"Abby!" Benedict says as she heads in. "Didn't think we'd be seeing you for a few more days."

"Nope. Supposed to meet Jimmy and Tim for lunch, but they're going to be an hour." Which is true, but misleading. They're going to be an hour because she showed up an hour early. "Figured I'd head down and see what's going on."

"Right now we're running trace for McKellan's theft, Jamison's murder case, Apley's drug ring. And Corwin is logging evidence on the Meyer's case."

She doesn't recognize any of those names, so they must all be Agents Afloat. Apparently it's a bad time to be at sea. "All at once?"

"As much as we can. Only so many slots in the mass spectrometer."

She bristles a little at the way Benedict is treating Major Mass Spec like it's just a tool, but that's not important here.

"Okay. You've got the reports up to date?"

"As up to date as they can be mid-case."

"Good. I'll log on and get reading. Want to be ready to hit the ground running when I get back."

"Great."

* * *

One of the good things about the position of her main computer monitor is that she can be 'reading' her reports while watching, with a fairly clear view, what's going on in the lab. What's even better is that, with the door shut and her music on, her new underlings are sure she can't hear what they're saying.

They are absolutely right about that. She cannot, at all, hear what they are saying.

Of course, she doesn't need to hear what they are saying to follow the conversation.

And, it's not like they're saying anything particularly troublesome or indiscreet. They are, after all, professionals, at work, doing their jobs. Little bit of gossip about the new hair and wondering if that music is going to be on all the time (She makes a note to get more earbuds.) as well as some speculation as to exactly how many tattoos she's got and where they might all be, (something you get used to when you've got as many tatts as she does) followed by some speculation as to what kind of skin ink Tim must have, but for the most part they're talking about work.

And skimming the reports, they do seem to be doing fine.

The quality of the work is good.

The tests are accurate, well done, and thorough, exactly what she expects if she's the one doing them. Likewise they're maintaining the equipment properly, and running tests on it often enough to make sure that everything is in tip top shape.

So, if there's any issue with this crew, it's that they don't seem to grasp the concept of triage. The most important work comes first. They do indeed seem to be working on the idea of the first case in gets worked as each spot in the lab opens. So, Major Mass Spec can handle twelve samples at once, so the first twelve bits of whatever get run, and if that means the trace under the nails of the vics of the triple homicide have to wait because the robbery got there first, then wait they will.

So, that's the first job, getting the triage protocols set.

As she continues to read through the reports she's noticing that computer forensics is looking a bit shaky. They've been handing things off to Cybercrime that she or Tim would usually handle, but… well, okay, technically that's part of what Cybercrime is supposed to do. Still, gotta get that up to shape, make sure they understand that their lab handles all forensics that comes into them.

But, it might just be that, in that they are forensic scientists, and not computer guys, they just don't know how to do that sort of work. Not uncommon, computer forensics wasn't a skillset the forensic lab usually hires for.

That might be her new prima ballerina area, she'll be the shining star of the computer forensics, and let them do more and more of the traditional lab work…

Maybe.

Day after tomorrow she'll officially be back, and they'll figure it out from there.

* * *

After an hour, she did head over to Autopsy, say hello to Ducky, and collect Jimmy for their lunch date.

"How's it going?" he asked as the elevator took them up to the Bullpen.

She nodded her head a little. "It's going. Zelaz is very interested in how many tattoos I really have."

Jimmy nudged her shoulder with his and grinned at her. "Aren't we all?"

"Twenty-two."

"That many? Really?"

She pushed up the sleeve of her lab coat so he could see the stitch marks. "Well, this is nine of them."

"Okay."

She can see him thinking through that. "You've seen all of them. Anyone who's seen me in a bathing suit has."

"That's what I was thinking."

"Yeah, I could see you counting it in your head."

The doors opened, and Tim saw them head toward him, held up his index finger in a _one minute_ gesture, and typed faster. And a minute after that he did join them.

"Finishing up an email to Vance about my last test on Cybercrime."

Jimmy and Abby both know that's not something he really talks about at work, so they both nod, wait for the door to the elevator to close, and then Abby asks, "So?"

"Just clean up stuff, details about the six of them who completely failed to figure out what was going on. I checked the regs, and since, technically I'm a co-worker and not their boss, I'm not allowed access to their HR files, so I was asking him for permission to get them."

"Why asking permission? Don't you have a rule for that?" Jimmy asked.

"Because if I don't get permission, they can sue me, personally, for breaking into their records for privacy violations. I'm not so gung-ho on Gibbs' rules that I want to bankrupt us."

"Thank you." Abby said.

"No problem. So, how's the first day back going?" he asks with a quick hello kiss.

* * *

They talked about work, and about Abby's plan for creating some sort of evidence/case triage system. Talked about getting used to the idea of being at work, of not being Kelly's primary caregiver. And, in that they're dads, and no one ever expected either of them to be their baby's primary caregivers, talking to them about it is somewhat less satisfying than talking to Breena, but they're both very supportive and trying to be sympathetic.

As lunch was winding down, Tim said, "I was thinking…"

"God, that sound ominous," Jimmy adds.

Tim kicked him lightly under the table. "How would you feel about being major characters in a series I'm thinking of writing?"

Jimmy put his drink down. "Wait, are you actually asking, ahead of time, if we'd like to be in one of your books?"

"Yeah."

Abby's eyebrows shot awfully high up on her forehead. Like she can't believe he'd ask. (Of course, having starred in one of his series, and having been told about one of them when he was writing it, and having to scour the internet to find the other, she's… used to… might be the best way to put it, being his silent muse.)

"I'm contracted for one more Deep Six, and I was thinking of… I don't know… I don't want to stop doing them all together… Maybe writing more of them on spec…" He can see Jimmy and Abby don't know what that means. "As they come out. Instead of a set schedule of one a year.

"And I was thinking of a fantasy series." Abby lights up at that, knowing what characters he's playing with. "Maybe not full on Game of Thrones, but something for adults, something with dragons."

"You aren't going to make me a dragon, are you?" Jimmy asks.

Tim looks a little startled by that. "I hadn't been thinking of it. You wanna be a dragon?"

Jimmy shakes his head. "I am not your comic sidekick."

"No, wasn't thinking that. Besides, does three tons of flaming death machine sound like a comic sidekick to you?"

"Oh, real dragons." Jimmy lights up at the idea of that.

"Yeah. Book for grown-ups. Serious hard-core, magic-wielding, fighters. Not… snarky house cats with wings."

"Might like being a dragon, then…"

"I was thinking of the Lord of the next castle over."

"Sidekick?"

"Partner/friend/brother-in-arms." Jimmy doesn't look thrilled by that. "You wanna be the main character, write your own book."

Jimmy smiles and takes a sip of his drink.

"So, you're going to be the main character in your own book, finally?" Abby asks. Tibbs leads the Deep Six series, with Tommy and Liza being the main secondary characters, McGregor, Amy, and James are all firmly in back up territory. And nothing even remotely like him shows up in the T. M. Gee books.

"Yeah. I was thinking maybe it was time to really be in my stories, not just have them happen around me."

Abby squeezes his hand. "I like that."

Jimmy smiles. "I think Gibbs should be a dragon."

That got the other two of them laughing.

"He should be an old, silver one, trains the young dragons, beats them into shape."

"Fornell, too." Tim adds.

"Oh yeah. Can you just see that? Old dragons, just a bit past fighting prime, wings are starting to get a little droopy, but the brains, claws, and teeth are still sharp, the spells still fly fast and deadly…" Abby says, getting into the idea.

"Dragons can change shape right?" Jimmy asks.

"Why not?" Tim replies. Some dragons can. No reason his dragons couldn't.

"Then there's your twist. We are the dragons, but we're the knights, too. No one outside the Dragon Knights knows that, though. They use the magic to keep it a secret, for, I don't know, whatever reason… thinking that up is your job…"

Tim looks at Abby, grinning. "That'd explain the 'need to be strong of will and magic to control them' bit. It's not that the dragons eat the knights that can't control them, it's that they are the knights, so they don't let anyone else ride them. Building up the mythos of their power and the power of the men who control them."

She nods along with that. "If you've got to be a total badass to even get on the dragon… Yeah, that works. So, why are we at war?"

"Who the hell cares?" Tim asks.

She rolls her eyes. "It's been a while since you've read an epic fantasy, hasn't it?"

"Yeah."

"Trust me, they care now."

"I'll figure out something. So, wanna be in my next series of books?"

"Yeah."

"Yes."

"I'll ask Breena, too. After all, the Dragon Knights have to have their ladies."

"I think she'll like that. So, we're gonna be the big, damn heroes?" Jimmy asks, quoting Firefly.

Tim grins back at him. "Big, damn heroes engaging in thrilling heroics!"

Abby laughs at both of them, enjoying their excitement.

* * *

Seven AM. Normally they don't leave for work until 7:23, but she wants to get in a bit early today. Has to get in a bit early. Needs to be the first one in.

So, she hands Kelly to Heather, who takes her with a smile, grabs her bag, kisses Kelly one more time, exhales deeply, and heads with Tim to the car.

He squeezes her hand as he pulls out of the driveway.

"It's gonna be fine."

She bites her lip. "I know."

"It really is. Only thing you've got to worry about now is getting into the house before I do so you can get your snuggle on first."

She glares at him.

"Just kidding. I know you get first snuggles today."

"Today?"

"She's my baby, too. I've got just as much dibs on snuggle time as you do."

Abby snorted at that, and he wasn't sure if that was a laugh or a dismissal, but she wasn't, either…

* * *

First one in. Exactly the way she had hoped. Abby took the poster she had rolled up and tucked into her bag, and opened it, taping it to the shelf over the monitors on the main computers. (She'll put it somewhere less in the way, later.)

NCIS Lab Priorities:

Terror Threat

Kidnapping

Terror Attack

Murder

Everything Else

She saw Benedict take a look at is as he came in, but he didn't say anything, and started getting his station ready. She waited until Zelaz and Corwin were in as well and gathered them 'round.

"From everything I've been seeing, you three are doing a find job on the evidence. Your technical skills are top notch. You're doing the job exactly the way it's supposed to be done.

"Organizational skills are a different matter. We're not just working on Afloat cases where the perps are all stuck in one place, can't get away, and time sensitivity isn't such a big deal.

"From now on, this is how we handle evidence. Protecting and saving living victims come first. Terror threat is a whole bunch of living victims, so it goes on top. We get a credible terror threat and everything else that does not contribute to stopping it goes by the wayside.

"Kidnappings come next. The only thing that trumps a kidnapping is a terror threat. Someone goes missing, all hands go on deck and we work until we get 'em back.

"Then comes a finished terror attack. Lots of dead people don't outweigh one alive one. But if it looks like figuring out what happened'll stop another on, this gets bumped up to preventing a terror attack.

"After that comes assaults/rapes. Fortunately we don't get a lot of those.

"Dead bodies come next. When we're working a murder we're there for the survivors.

"Everything else comes later. I do not want to see any of you working on any evidence for anything that isn't one of the above until everything we've got on the top five is processed or processing. I don't care how time sensitive or embarrassing a theft or fraud or whatever is. It doesn't get taken care of until anything that belongs to one of the above is cooking.

"Got it?"

Three nods. "Good. Okay, they tell me you've got a smoother system for checking and processing evidence. Show me what you're doing and let's get this lab moving the way it's supposed to."


	13. One Year

"Have a good nap?" Gibbs asks.

Tim looks through the car window with muzzy eyes, rubs them for a moment, and stares at the factory in front of them.

"Yeah, actually. Thanks for letting me rest. Kelly's making sure neither of us gets a lot of sleep." Neither he, nor Abby, nor Heather knows what's going on, but for the last three days she's decided that 3:30 AM is party time, and they're having a devil of a time getting her to go back to sleep. She's not hungry, or gassy, or poopy, or… anything. But whatever it is, she wants to be up and playing.

He and Abby have been doing their best impression of Zombies for two days now, and are looking for anything they can think of to get their child back to sleeping from one to seven, the way she had been doing and the way they had been appreciating greatly.

Gibbs has been nodding away at that. (His own veteran parenting technique for this worked something like this: 'Waking up for no good reason?' 'Yep.' 'Crying?' 'Nope, just wants to hang out with us.' 'Call Jimmy.' He knows when he's out of his depths.) "Babies do that. Nothing going on right now. But you fall asleep when you're on watch, and you're toast."

"Got it, Boss. So, how long was that?"

"Three hours."

"Thank you." He stretches as well as he can in the car and rubs his eyes. "Okay, I'm up. No one's moved?"

"Nope."

"You wanna crash?" It's a bit after two in the morning, good time to crash if you don't want your entire schedule upside down. Since he and Tony got the day shift on the last stakeout, they got the night shift on this one, and since Gibbs is officially back on 'light duty', he's capable of sitting in a car and making note of who goes into and out of a brownstone just as well as Tim and Tony can, so he's taking some of the night shifts, too.

"I'm going to get us more coffee first, then sure." Gibbs gets out of the car and heads down the street.

Tim stares at the building in front of them. Okay, in front of them and one street over. They've got a view through an empty lot. Nothing's going on, so he keeps his eyes moving. Three doors, two access roads, six windows. He keeps them all in view. Sure, no one's likely to go repelling off the roof into one of those windows, but he's also sure that if he just stares at the house he'll be asleep in a matter of minutes, and that would be a very not good thing.

Gibbs gets back a few minutes later, while Tim's noting the license plate of every car that's parked out front. Yes, he's sure Gibbs has already done that, but redundancy is good, and if it helps to keep him awake…

He takes the coffee from Gibbs and gulps it. "Okay, starting to feel like a human again."

Gibbs smiles, shakes his head a little, after all, it's decaf, takes a sip of his, and then settles back into his seat, relaxing, eyes closed. Crashing for a few hours sounds like a really good plan right about now.

Tim watches the house, and then watches Gibbs, seeing how even getting ready to snooze he's still awfully alert.

So, he decides to ask Gibbs something he's been thinking about for a while. Since he blew his knee out and had to take that time off. When he and Tony started talking some about what the hell to do when Gibbs hangs up his cuffs the idea started to crystalize.

He's already talked to Abby about it, and she thought it was a good idea. Thought it was worth the risk, assuming Jethro and Leon were on board.

"Jethro?"

"Yeah." He doesn't open his eyes.

"You aren't ready to be done with this, are you?"

"I'm ready for this stakeout to be done."

"Not what I mean. January 15th, that's supposed to be your last day, right?"

"Yeah."

"What if it didn't have to be?"

That gets Gibbs' eyes open. "You got someone who'll change the mandatory retirement age for field agents?"

"No." Tim stares at Gibbs, really looking at his face, thinking about what he could do, what people might be willing to believe. If only he hadn't enlisted the minute he turned eighteen.

"Say the word and you were born in 1960."

"Tim?" He looks startled by that.

"One year. I can cut a year off your age. People will believe that. Anyone asks, you lied and enlisted at seventeen."

"Vance knows how old I am."

"Yeah, but he won't say anything about it. Keep his best team running smooth for another year? Let Draga really settle in before adding in another Probie? He'll go for it."

"Five on a team?" True, that'll be awkward, but Tim's fairly sure it also won't be true all that much longer.

Tim shakes his head. "Jenner's on his third call back with IBM. Can't imagine I'll finish out the year on the MCRT. You want me to do it?"

He can see it in Gibbs' eyes, hope, that he can pull it off. Doubt, that he won't be able to do it. Little bit of fear, not wanting to get his hopes up if this can't be done. Lot of fear, what happens after retirement. Relief, he may not have just tossed the drowning man the lifesaver, but he's noticed he's there and has told him he's going to find one.

"What would you have to do?" He can see the _how illegal is this?_ in Gibbs' eyes as he asks the question.

"Nothing much." _Yeah, it's pretty damn illegal. I won't get caught. _"Just, don't screw it up. After it's done, you've got to act it. Don't start collecting social security a year 'early.' Stuff like that."

"I can do that."

"Okay. I'll take care of it and have a chat with Vance. If he's not cool with it, I'll put everything back the way it was."

"Thank you."

He shrugs.

"No. Really, Tim. Thank you."

"Let's see if I can actually pull it off before you thank me."

* * *

Tim made an appointment with Vance a week later, as September was easing into October, and wasn't surprised to see he got a chance to talk to him less than four hours later.

"Agent McGee, what can I do for you?" Vance was assuming this was going to be another update on his continuing Cybercrime investigation. And there was some of that. He'd been looking through the HR files and coming to the distressing conclusion that Jenner was good at hiring, but working at NCIS was sucking all the life and talent out of these people.

On the upside, it was easier to change the environment than it was to change people. So… hopefully he can get the morale switched around and start beating them into shape.

"I was talking to Jethro a few days ago, and something came up."

Vance was giving him the 'get to it' look, because this wasn't what he was expecting and chit chatting about Jethro isn't on his to do list for today.

"Did you know he lied about his age to enlist early?" But, Jethro was what Tim was up here to talk about, so they were going to talk about him.

"No. I did not know that." The subtext being, _I did not know that because it didn't happen, so why are you bugging me about it?_

"Yeah, besides you and I, and Jethro, of course, almost no one knows that."

"Fascinating." Vance was giving Tim his _get to the point_ look.

"It just seems like it'd be a shame to lose such a good agent because of forty-year-old lie."

"Uh huh…" Vance was looking remarkably unimpressed that Tim would even try this on him. "McGee, has anyone ever told you how bad of a liar you are?"

He nodded. Unlike Tony, he didn't have a reputation for being any good at lying. "Several times. There's a reason why I almost never go undercover. Of course, as someone once said to me, there are two ways to follow someone, one way is so they never see you, and the other way is so they see nothing but you. Likewise, there are a lot of ways to lie."

Vance seemed interested in that, interested in the idea that McGee might have more than just his word for it, but still cool. "Uh huh. So, this forty-year-old lie, is there anything to suggest it might not be a lie?"

"Well, someone might wonder why Jethro started kindergarten at four, but there is a note in his file from his kindergarten teacher about how smart of a child he was, and everyone knew his mother was sick at the time, so having him out of the house for a few hours a day helped. And someone might wonder why his social security number is one from 1959, but the records show it was assigned in 1960, and as we all know, SS numbers can be a little wonky. And if someone were to check his birth certificate, or the baptism records at Stillwater First Episcopal, they'd find that he was born in 1960. He's something of a pack rat, you know? Still has all of that, still has his first driver's license, and that has his birth year as 1960."

"Uh huh." Leon's respect for Tim's lying skills, or at least his forging skills, appeared to be increasing. Technically, Tim handled the computer work and the 'rewriting' part of the forging detail. (Literally, rewriting, he's better at matching someone else's handwriting than Abby is.) Having someone with a masters in chemistry around made it a whole lot easier to come up with "blank" documents to rewrite, along with chemically correct inks to do the rewriting with. So Abby handled that. Short of carbon dating, Jethro's "new" documents were perfect.

Tim was seeing the way Leon was looking at him and was wondering if he was going to be getting some interesting off-the-books assignments in the not wildly distant future.

"Yeah. It'd just be unfortunate to make him retire because of that."

"Uh huh. What about actual living people?"

"LJ'd tell you he was born in 1960. Most of the time. LJ's been telling that lie about 1959 for a long time, too, so he might answer wrong on automatic. So, he might need some reminding about why he's telling the truth. But once he knows he's not covering anymore, he'll tell you about how Jackson didn't want Jethro to join the Marines, how they were fighting all the time, so LJ stepped up and suggested he go in early. Off they went to the next town over. His Godfather, a distinguished veteran, vouched for his age. Jethro got in." All of that was complete and utter bullshit, but LJ knew the 'real story' and was willing to swear on it. He actually rather liked that version of it. And because Stillwater didn't have a Marine recruiting station, Gibbs did have to go to the next town over, Meadville, to enlist.

"I'll see what I can do."

"Good."

It wasn't until he walked out, got back to the bullpen, and nodded to Gibbs that he realized that just possibly mentioning this plan, to their actual team leader, before putting it in action, may have been a good plan.


	14. Always Team Gibbs

Tony sees the nod. Sees the way Gibbs is looking at McGee, follows that glance, sees McGee nod, and sees Gibbs… not smile, but he's looking very, very satisfied.

Then he sees McGee notice he's watching the exchange and go white.

And suddenly Tony's thinking something just went very, very wrong.

Ziva and Draga are out, grabbing a suspect, which means, right now, they have the time to get into whatever the hell just happened.

"Okay, both of you, my office."

McGee and Gibbs both glance at each other. Tony doesn't have an office, and as of this point, he hasn't had any need to have a private conference, at work, with either of them that couldn't wait to get home. Which means he's talking about Gibbs' office. Except that it's Tony's, right? Not Gibbs', not anymore, because Gibbs isn't supposed to be having the sort of conferences that require an office. Because that's Tony's job.

Or, at least, it's supposed to be.

Tony feels his stomach drop even further when Gibbs suddenly looks guilty and then shakes his head. "Coffee run. Someone'll want to use the elevator sooner or later."

Tony's eyes go wide. "What the hell did you two do?" he asks while herding them toward the elevator. His office, Gibbs' office, whatever, it's the only nearby space they can talk in private.

McGee glances at Gibbs and says, "It's not in the bag, yet. Leon's looking into it."

_Great. Whatever it is those two have got running, they've got Vance in on, too. _"Looking into _what,_ McBackstabber?" When Tim doesn't immediately flip out about the backstabber thing Tony feels even worse. By that point they are in the elevator, and he flips it off and says, "McGee, what the fuck did you do?"

"Bought me another year."

Tony stares at both of them, feeling the steam getting ready to come out of his ears. _Another year? Without even saying anything to me? Reset my whole team without my permission? _ Then he slams the off switch, hit the button for the bullpen, and stands there, silent, vibrating with anger, and when the doors open, he points at McGee and says one word. "Out."

McGee doesn't look like he wants to leave. Tony's not sure if he wants to stay and protect Gibbs, or stay and have Gibbs protect him, but either way, he doesn't budge until Gibbs gave him a quick nod. _Doesn't move until his Boss gives him permission. _Tony closes his eyes and winces as McGee heads back to his desk to do… Right now, Tony's so pissed he doesn't care what McGee does.

As soon as the doors slide shut he bites out, "You didn't think it was worth mentioning this to me before doing it?"

"Eighteen."

He's flat out glaring at Gibbs. "Fuck eighteen! Eighteen is crap. Eighteen is something you pull on strangers you don't care about because doing whatever the hell it is you want is way more important to you than how they feel about it. So fuck eighteen. I am not a stranger. I am your partner! Hey, maybe you've got a rule or something about that. _Technically_, I am your _boss_. And above and beyond all of that, I am someone who has earned the basic common courtesy, if not the respect, of you telling me what the fuck you are doing!

"And more than that, because if fifteen years of having your six, backing every play you've ever run, and saving your life more often than any other man on earth doesn't do it, you are not the team leader! It is _my _team, and you and McGee don't get to run off and pull crap like this on your own."

Gibbs doesn't say anything. He's not sorry about doing it. Tim's right, he wants this. He needs it. Another year is like being able to breathe again; it's like getting to step off the ledge, or hearing the crack of the bullet as it whizzes by your head, but the fact that he's not sorry doesn't mean that he doesn't get why Tony is pissed.

Or that, as he's thinking about it, that he's not sorry about how they did it.

And he gets, standing there, watching Tony vibrate with anger, that there are levels of this. A lot more of them than he would have guessed if he'd thought about it, beyond the rush of hope at getting another year.

The first is that punched-in-the-gut, feeling betrayed that came from them not telling Tony.

It hadn't even occurred to him to do it. Secrets work best the fewer the people who know about them. And he didn't know if Tim and Abby really could pull it off, and if they couldn't…

Obviously, if it worked, he'd have to say something about it, because the whole family knows that January is coming, but…

But it didn't hit him to say something to Tony because it's _his_ team and he doesn't have to answer questions about what he's doing to anyone. He certainly doesn't have to explain what he's doing. He does his thing; they follow and back _his_ play, and that's how it works.

Except, of course, it's not _his_ team.

And that's the second, deeper, real level. Tony is never going to be his Boss. He just… can't. And sure, he'll take Tony's orders, back his plays, run whatever game he wants run, but Tony isn't his Boss.

Same as that minute he always spent thinking about it whenever he called Mike Franks back in. Franks would help; Franks always helped, but he was never in charge of Franks.

_This is a fine mess you've gotten yourself into, Probie._

_Ya think, Mike?_

He can feel the nod Mike would have given him at that. What he doesn't feel is a way to get out of this, at least, not a way that doesn't feel like setting himself on fire.

He feels Tony's anger on another level, a related one. Tony isn't Tim's Boss, either. Few more months and Tim'll outrank Tony, and they both know it.

Which means, as long as both of them are there, it's not really Tony's team. Can't be. And Tony knows that, but was willing to put up with it because it's temporary. And because they'd both been playing their roles, allowing for the illusion of it being his team.

Sort of. Tim's already broken it once.

And this broke the illusion again, and not just in a quick, temporary sort of way. That's why Tony winced when Tim waited for his nod to leave. Just another mark of it not being _his_ team.

And the only saving grace of this is that it happened when Draga wasn't in the office.

Gibbs leans against the wall of the elevator, the back of his head hitting with a dull thunk, as he looks up and licks his lips.

"You want me to go?"

"You are too old for this!"

"Not what I asked."

"Your vision is shot. Your knee is fucked. The only reason you're still here is because we've got a five man team and can take up the slack. You are too old!"

"I passed my last physical. My vision is within specs, even without glasses, but I can wear them full time if that's the issue. I've got to get through physical therapy and then pass another physical to get back to full duty. If I can't pass it, I won't stay. You know that.

"Until I blew my knee out, I was hitting the gym every day. I dropped sixteen pounds between February and July and took a minute twelve off my time on the mile. Until the warehouse, I was in the best shape I've been in for five years." He leaves unsaid that right now (knee aside) he's in about the same shape Tony is, maybe slightly better, and better shape (stronger, better wind, faster) than Tim was for most of the years he's been here.

"Besides, you know the retirement age is about money. You were here when they dropped it from sixty-two to fifty-seven." NCIS, like a lot of the Federal Government, paid by years of experience, and cutting that five years off saved literally tens of millions of dollars a year for NCIS in wages and pension outlays. And it was true that if you had less than twenty years of service it was very easy to get the fifty-seven mandatory retirement age waived, (it's so common there's actually a form for it) but back in '13 that stopped being an out for Gibbs. "FBI and the Marines would let me hang around until sixty-two."

"Marines would have booted you for too many years a decade ago." Which was true, also. As a Gunny, they would have booted him at twenty-four years. If he'd hit Master Gunnery Sergeant, they would have booted him at thirty years. Well, not booted, he would have been able to serve out his term, but they don't let you re-enlist after that many years of service. And like NCIS, but on a much larger scale, cutting those years saved lots of money. A Gunny with thirty years in made fifteen thousand dollars a year more than a Gunny with twenty years, and did the same job. Gibbs' twenty two years at NCIS meant he was getting paid eleven thousand dollars a year more than Tony, who was, at this point, literally doing the same job. "And you know just as well as I do that it's not just about money. It's also about making sure guys like me can move up before we get put out to pasture."

That's true, too. Upper-middle rungs never mind when the top level gets sent off, because they fill those positions. And as long as he's there, Tony can't really move up. "Do you want me to go?"

Tony glares at him, and he knows what that means. He's asking Tony to cut his head off, and Tony, no matter how pissed he may be about this, doesn't want to drop that blow. It's one thing for him to age out, it's a whole other thing for Tony to tell him to leave.

"It's kinda like dying. I guess." Gibbs says, quietly. "Not really, but… There's that day on the calendar, staring at me, and after it… What? Sit around, drink, build boats? Remember the Reynolds case?" Tony looks alarmed, so obviously he did remember the Commander who killed himself rather than face retirement and the emptiness that went with it. "It's not that bad, not even close, but… January 15th is like jumping off a cliff. He threw me a lifeline, so I took it, and I'm not sorry about that." And it's a low blow, because he knows that'll make it even harder for Tony to boot him out, but it is like dying, and he doesn't know what the hell he's going to do on January 16th, and right now, he'll take almost any out he can get.

"I'm sorry we didn't tell you. Should have done that. I'm sorry it screws with your team. And if you need or want me to go, I will. I've got my twenty plus in, my pension's vested. If you need me to be done, I can be done." And that's true, too. If Tony draws the line for him, he won't give him any trouble. He'll make drawing that line as hard as he can, but if Tony does it, he'll abide, and he'll leave, and he'll never mention it again, and, eventually, he won't hold it against him. Everything ends, and his run as NCIS can't be exempt from that, no matter how much he wishes it was.

"But you're not done," Tony says with a deep sigh.

"No. I'm not. I'm not ready to be done with this. I'm… I'm not ready for whatever comes next."

"You will pass the physical, and then you'll pass my physical and it will be a hell of a lot harder, and if it looks like you're lagging or anything…"

Gibbs holds up his hands in a gesture of peace. "Your team, you pick."

Tony shakes his head, muttering, "Like fuck it's mine. You know I can't shoot my own dog, and you're taking advantage of it."

Jethro nods. "Yes."

They're closer to the first floor than the bullpen, so Tony flicks the elevator back on, let it go down, and got out. "I'll be in the gym. Send him down."

Gibbs almost opens his mouth to say something like it was all his idea, or that Tim was acting under orders or… But he knows Tony won't buy it and given how the last month's been doing, that Tim wouldn't want it. So he nods and hit the up button.


	15. Conversation

Tim's not at his desk when Gibbs gets back up. Ziva is. Draga's not.

She's looking pretty calm, so either she doesn't know what's going on, or it's not bothering her. Probably doesn't know.

"He give you any trouble?" Gibbs asks about the suspect.

Ziva flashes Gibbs her, _no not at all, don't be silly_ look.

Gibbs nods at that. Good to know collecting the suspect went well. And since they tracked him through tech stuff that Tim and Draga handled, they were probably interrogating him.

"Draga and Tim in interrogation?"

"Yes. Where is Tony?"

"In the gym."

Now she's sending him her curious look. Tony's not been setting any records of physical fitness lately, and during the middle of an active case didn't seem like a particularly natural time to start.

"Why is Tony in the gym?"

Gibbs holds his phone so she can see he's texting on it. He sent a quick message to Tony as to where Tim was, and another to Tim about where he's supposed to be going. He finishes that and just sort of looks at her, not sure what to say.

"Gibbs?" Now she's starting to look a bit worried and nervous.

So he starts at the beginning. They're in the bullpen in the middle of the office, so he tells the 'official' version, but she knows well enough to know that's bullshit and why he's lying, and the bit where he mentions how McGee was 'helping him find the right documents' to prove how old he really is lets her know exactly what happened.

He looks fairly sheepish as he gets done with the telling, and he can see she's torn. Half-pissed at him for not treating Tony with more respect, half-understanding that desperate need to be useful and to save lives and do the job.

Of all of them, she's the one who gets that need the most. She's the one, like him, with the dark red blood on her ledger, trying to erase it one solved crime at a time. It never washes out, and what Ari did wasn't her fault, any more than what happened to Shannon and Kelly was his, but in the end, that doesn't matter, the red is still there, and only one thing eases the ache of it.

"Why didn't you go to him? He would have been fine with it if you had just told him."

Gibbs isn't entirely sure of that, but he does know that Tony would have been a whole hell of a lot better with it if they had asked him.

"Honestly didn't think to."

"Because you're the Boss and the Boss doesn't ask."

"Yeah."

She mutters something, low and quiet, and possibly not English, while shaking her head. Then says in her normal tone, "And he's planning on having a discussion, in the gym, with McGee about him also not mentioning anything while he 'helped you locate' the documents you needed."

"Yes."

"And, let me guess, he's the one who suggested you go find those documents in the first place?"

"Yeah."

"So, this will be a very _intense_ discussion."

"I'd imagine." They've been tense the last six weeks, and this was probably just tossing a match into the room filled with gasoline fumes.

"Gibbs…"

He looks over to her.

"You cannot stay if he's not the Boss. A few months isn't a problem. A year is."

"Thirty-eight," he says quietly.

"No Gibbs. Your lead, your case, no." She shakes her head. "No your rules. It's his and it gets done his way and he runs it how he likes, and if you are going to stay, you need to show the proper respect for that."

"And you'd know something about that?" he asks, realizing at some point Ziva must have had this conversation with herself, must have made the decision that Tony could be her husband and her boss.

"Yes. I would. So, can you do that, or do you have to go? We know McGee has to go. He's ready for his own team, and they are both stepping on each other's feet. Especially after this last month... But that will happen, sooner than later."

Gibbs nods, he wants to say that he can do it, that he can jump in and surrender the team and whatever it is he needs to do to stay, but… But he realizes he needs to really think about it. Three leaders on one team is two too many, but two isn't much better, and certainly isn't fair to Tony.

"I'll know soon."

"Good enough. Maybe… you might talk to Rachel about it?"

They tend to skirt around the fact that he sees her, just like they don't much talk about the marriage counseling that Tony and Ziva are doing, but he nods nonetheless. Talking to Rachel about it probably is a good idea.

* * *

Tim felt his phone buzz. Just once. Probably Gibbs or Tony letting him know he was up. He doesn't check his phone. In interrogation get buzzed twice and that means pull it out and look, once means get 'round to it when you can.

Draga's taking lead on this interrogation, not his first time, but he likely hasn't hit ten yet, either. Tim's chilling in the corner, staring down at Ralph Mason, intentionally looking bored, making sure Ralph feels like they've got him dead to rights and this is just about getting the paperwork filled out. (Which, as far as Ralph is concerned, is true. Who he was working for is another story, one they want a conclusion to.)

Draga's asking about the technical specs of what Ralph was doing. (He cloned the VA's website interface for doctors, stole their info, then used it to order extra medical devices from several companies. VA never got the devices, but the companies that made them got paid. Not their usual sort of case, but the last murder they handled involved an artificial knee that they traced by the manufacturer number, and found that said knee joint had been sold four times… Solved the murder two days ago, but decided this stunk to high heaven and needed to be checked out.) Tim's enjoying getting to be the guy who hangs out in the corner. In the past, he's always had to write up notes that were too deep for Tony, Gibbs, or Ziva to do the questioning, so they didn't. They hung out and looked menacing and he asked the questions.

So, Draga's working him over, laying the verbal trap to get the names of who actually set this up. His voice is calm, the questions are lulling, he's even adding a sort of Robin Hood angle into it, making Ralph look like some sort of hero, after all, times are hard, and those 'extra' orders kept a bunch of people employed, and no one got hurt, really… so…

About three words too late, Ralph figured out what was happening and froze, demanding a lawyer.

And a quick change of track, the 'come on, you don't really need one, only guilty people need lawyers' didn't get Ralph's tongue to loosen again. And as Draga's aiming for another run at that, Tim ends things, gently pulling him out without making it obvious he's doing it.

So, they head back out of interrogation. Tim pulls out his cell, sees the note from Jethro, and feels a thrill of… he's not sure, and right now isn't a great moment for introspection. He says to Draga, "Okay, give him a few minutes in there, then take him down to processing, they'll handle the details."

"Got it."

He tucks his cell back into his pocket. "Also, next time, once they ask for a lawyer, you've gotta stop. If you get the wrong judge or the right lawyer, anything he says after he's asked for one'll get tossed, and anything we find based on anything he says after he's asked for one'll get tossed, too."

"Okay. What'll you be doing?"

"Having a chat with Tony."

"You two okay?" Draga doesn't look like he's sure he's allowed to ask that, but he does, anyway.

"Nothing you need to worry about."

"Just, you've been really… tense the last month or so."

"Trust me, we both know."

"You know, if you want to talk or something…"

Tim smiles at Draga, appreciating the offer. "Even if I did, it wouldn't be appropriate. He's your Boss."

Draga thinks about that. "But he's not yours, is he?"

"No."

"Is that the problem?"

"One of 'em." Tim glances around, they're the only ones in the hallway outside of interrogation, but he pitches his voice low, anyway. "Look, we're not talking about it yet, but, yes, your interview question about why are we replacing Gibbs with you was right. We're not replacing Gibbs with you, we're replacing me. When Jenner leaves, I'm taking Cybercrime. Cybercrime does not know this, yet. Jenner does not know this. Jenner's second-in-command _really_ does not know this, and I do not want him to find out from anyone but me, got it?"

Draga nods. "No scuttlebutt."

"Good."

"But Gibbs is a few months away from fifty-seven."

Tim doesn't comment on that.

"So, he should be leaving, right?"

"That's the question."

"So, is Gibbs not leaving?"

"That's what I'm going to be talking to Tony about."

"Why would _you_ be talking to him about it?"

"Because if Gibbs isn't leaving, it'll be my fault."

Draga looks perplexed by that answer.

Tim shakes his head. "Look, I know you're a cop. I know getting to the bottom of mysteries is part of the job, part of the mindset that does this job, but let this one lie."

"You guys ever going to tell me what's up?"

"Some of it, eventually. It's work stuff and family stuff and a lot of history that's biting both of us right now, and that gets messy. One way or another, it'll get better soon."

"Okay." He thinks about it. "That a long enough wait for…" he tilts his head toward the interrogation room.

"Actually, yeah, that was. Take him to processing, then head back to the Bullpen. Ziva or Gibbs'll have something for you."

* * *

The hand-lettered sign on the door to the gym read CLOSED. Tony's handwriting. That's one way to get a private "conversation."

Tim's immensely unsurprised to find the door unlocked when he tries it. He is surprised at how eager he is to go in there and have said "conversation."

Tony's standing next to the boxing ring, leaning against one of posts the ropes are anchored to. Jacket's off, but he's still in dress slacks, button down, tie, and loafers. Tim takes it in, the posture, defensive, his arms are crossed over his chest, the clothing, still buttoned up, the location, at the ring but not in it. A fight is on the table, but not, apparently, committed to, not yet.

"Report?"

"Mason lawyered up. Draga handled the interrogation, got enough out that we've got him dead. Realized he was in danger of incriminating whoever's hiring him, and shut up."

"See who's paying for the lawyer. If he is, he should roll pretty easy for the reduced sentence. If one of the companies is, we'll see if we can put pressure on him for conflict of interest."

Tim nods slowly, annoyed. "That's the play." He doesn't need to be told that. He's not Draga. He's not just been round this block before, he's done it often enough to sketch it from memory, describe it in perfect detail in one of his books, and walk the damn thing blindfolded with his hands tied behind his back. He knows this, and knowing it, he feels his own anger, stupid, blind, nothing to really do with this, totally out of proportion to what Tony's just said, build.

"Yep," Tony says, looking him up and down, and Tim knows he's testing him, looking to see if a fight is a good idea, if he can win, so Tim keeps his posture loose and open. Part of him hopes Tony'll try. Part of him, a big part, wants to beat Tony, wants this to get to fists and feet, to blood and pain. Part of him wants to pick Tony up off the floor of the ring, force him to acknowledge him as an equal if not a better.

And part of him knows that this doesn't have to happen, and that it might be better if it doesn't.

Part of him wonders that maybe it does.

And a big part of him knows that not going to Tony was disrespectful, and that Tony's got every right to be pissed, and that if Tim's thinking this seriously about fighting him, feeling this pissed at a stupid throw-away line, that he's really not done a good job of dealing with the fall-out from their last fight.

Neither forgotten nor forgiven, just tucked back, out of the way, and ignored.

Until now.

And it must be clear on his face because the next thing Tony says is, "You're still so pissed at me you'll fuck my team without saying anything." Tony's voice is quiet, angry, and sad.

"Who says it's about pissed?"

_Cut the crap_ is on Tony's face. "You did, when you didn't tell me. I get that he can't think of me as his Boss, and he's not in practice telling anyone about anything. And I get why he's going for it. Nine years from now, give me the same shot, and I'll take it. So, I get him. I'm pissed, but I get it, probably should have expected it. But you… I mean, what? You're fucking me for kicks on this one? Screaming at me and calling me a cunt wasn't enough?"

"It's not about you, Tony. The universe, in general, and I, in specific, don't revolve around you. It's about him."

"Bullshit. If it was about him, and keeping him on the job, and making sure he doesn't have to face life post-job too soon, you would have told me. You would have made sure I was okay with it. Back in June, you would have run it by me first. And I would have thought about it and had a long talk with him, and then probably said fine, go for it.

"But it's not June anymore. You've run the team, answered to no one but Vance, and you're getting ready for more of that. Apparently you like it. And you're angry at me, fine. And you want to make it abundantly clear that I am not your Boss and you don't take orders from me, message received, McCybercrime." Tony's loosening his tie, unknotting it, slipping it off.

"But it is _my_ team. And you just fucked it and me without saying a word. You went to Leon, not me. Which means he's knows, too, that it's not really mine. Because if it was _mine_ and I was cool with more Gibbs, I'd be the one going to him. So, not only are you making sure that I'm stuck in not-quite-Boss limbo for another year, you've also made sure that my Boss knows it. And you want me to think this isn't about me and it's not about you being pissed?"

Tim shrugs. Maybe it is about him being pissed. He's certainly not feeling any desire to apologize, explain himself, or try to defend what he did on any level. And he's certainly not thinking that Tony's wrong or overreacting. So, while he hadn't been thinking of it as a thing-to-do-to-screw-Tony, it certainly worked that way. And Tony's dead on right, he would have told him about it back in June.

"I can't change the past, Tim, I can't take those years of pranks and crap back, but here's the thing, it's over. It's been over for years. And after today it will be OVER. So either you forgive me and let it go, or we fight it out here and now and then you forgive me and let it go, but this passive aggressive crap, this trying to get your own back, it ends today."

Tim shrugs again, not sure what to do with that. He doesn't want to forgive. He does want to fight, but he's fairly sure fighting won't fix it. Say he did beat the hell out of Tony, because, at least right now, he's feeling pretty sure he'd win the fight. He's ten years younger, has been training with Ziva for half a year, weighs thirty pounds less than Tony now, and he can feel the rage of all those years of Tony showing him up and making him look like a fool bubbling in the back of his mind. Yeah, he can win this, easy. But then what? Might feel good, but it won't make it better, won't take those years of bullying back, won't fix what he just did with Gibbs, and it really won't make Tony feel more secure in his position of Team Leader.

He does notice, as he's thinking through this, that he's shrugging off his jacket and toeing off one of his shoes, too.

Looks like his body wants the fight. He intentionally puts the shoe back on again. Brain's in charge, not his body.

"What if I don't want to forgive? Ten years is a damn long time and you want me to get over it in one night?"

Tony shakes his head. "Too fucking bad. In June, you were over it, and you need to get back there. I'll let you beat it out if you need to, but you've got to forgive or I will put you on administrative leave until Vance sends you to Cybercrime, because you cannot be on my team like this."

"I'm doing the job just fine."

"Doing the job isn't enough, and you know it! We're a team, we support each other, cover for each other, work with each other, and if you can't do that, you can't be here. It's that simple."

Tim laughs mirthlessly and hears his jacket hit the floor. "All those years, you had my back? You watching out for me when I had to peel my face off my desk? Is that how you understood that? You covering for me and supporting me when you were making up the imaginary woman for me to fall in love with?" He feels the cool of the floor on feet just in socks, and realizes there isn't a good way to back away from this, and for that matter that he doesn't much want to.

Tony doesn't say anything, just takes off his watch, and tucks it into his jacket, hanging from the corner post of the boxing ring.

"You're going to _let_ me beat it out?"

"I don't know what else to do, Tim! It's been six weeks, you're still mad, you're still walking on eggshells around me, and I can't breathe around you, constantly scared I'm going to say something that sets you off, and you just pulled a shit load of crap on me with Gibbs. So what the fuck's left? Next step is I fire your ass, which we both know won't work because I can't fire you, so have at it! Maybe if you hit me enough, you'll get over it."

Tim can feel his hand in a fist and his stance shifting, his focus slowing, narrowing to just Tony, and Tony's on edge, ready to jump, ready to strike, keeping his eyes on Tim's arms and shoulders, expecting the first shot to come from his arms, because that's how he'd start the fight.

He can see it in his mind, one fast kick swipe and Tony'd be down. Wouldn't even see it coming because he's watching his left hand, waiting for the strike from his dominant side. Wouldn't even be very satisfying, because no matter how pissed he is, no matter how out of control or irrational this is, he's not going to keep kicking Tony after he goes down.

So, what, fifteen seconds of fight? Ten of which will be Tony getting back up?

Tony's still watching left, waiting for him to move, if he whips into him with his right elbow it'd keep going long enough to make it worthwhile.

Maybe. Except what'd be the value of it? Would it help? Breaking those beakers didn't help. Just made hurting worse. But bull rushing Tony when they were trapped in that stakeout and he was bitching about the damn eggs did. Some bruises and Gibbs yanking them apart made everything a whole lot better because the annoyed and pissed got burned off.

Because bodies are designed to run or fight.

And because ten years of not running and not fighting has caught up with him.

And Tony's offering.

So, while it's true that Tony does know what hit him (Tim) he wasn't expecting the foot/elbow combination that left him on the floor in one hit.

Tim gave him a hand up. "I've got sweats in the locker room. You got anything to change into?"

Tony nods.

"Good. Five minutes. You're right this is too long and I'm too angry and I don't know what to do with it and maybe it'll help."

* * *

He didn't take long to get changed, and didn't see Tony in the locker room, doesn't care if he's just picked a different locker bay, or if by something to get changed into he means he's got his go bag and that's got clean clothing in it for after.

He does know that last time Gibbs did pull them apart before they had a chance to really hurt each other, and that was a good thing.

And he knows that right now, Gibbs wading into the fight probably isn't a good plan.

So he sends the text to Jimmy. _Can you be down in the gym in seven minutes?_

_Sure. Why?_

_Make sure I don't kill Tony._

_Oh God, what are you two doing?_

_Hopefully working some things out. _

_By fighting?_

_That appears to be the plan._

_This is stupid._

_Yep. But it probably won't make things worse and might make them better._

He can feel Jimmy rolling his eyes. But a second later, _Seven minutes, starting now._ popped up on his phone.

* * *

"What a shock, your gym clothes are clean," Tony says, triggering memories of walking into the interrogation observation room in the only clean clothing he had. And just like that time, Tony laughs. But this time Tim doesn't look like a big dork in gray shorts and a sleeveless-t, socks pulled up too high, badge tucked onto his waistband.

This time, in just a pair of gray drawstring sweats and a wrist cuff, he's sure he's looking pretty dangerous. He's certainly feeling dangerous.

Tony apparently hadn't had anything else for fighting in. He'd taken off the dress shirt and his shoes and socks and belt, leaving him in an undershirt and dress slacks, standing in the ring, waiting for him.

"At least I've got some." And in that he's been training with Ziva for a few months now, he's not wearing all of his gym clothing. He left his usual workout t-shirt in his locker. When he's training with Jimmy or Ziva he wears a shirt, because… well, because they aren't fighting for real, and he doesn't care much about the potential hand holds that Ziva or Jimmy might use his shirt for. In fact, to a certain degree, letting them grapple him, and then breaking those holds is useful, after all, if he's fighting for real, he's unlikely to be shirtless.

But this is real and he's not giving Tony an inch when it comes to making it any easier. He slips between the ropes, saw that Tony's giving him the _come and get me_ look, and from there things merged into a slow blur of speed, force, jarring pain, and rushing endorphins.

* * *

Jimmy heads down a bit early. He knows, from talking to both Tim and Tony that they're been stuck in this sort of fragile trying not to piss each other… trying not to piss Tim off space. Sort of. Tim's been trying to not do anything that makes Tony crack some sort of cutting joke, and Tony's been feeling awfully guilty and trying not to make that sort of joke and they're both… okay… ish.

It could be a whole lot worse.

Maybe.

As he steps into the gym and sees Tim absolutely pounding the crap out of Tony, he's feeling pretty confident in the assessment that they have indeed located a whole lot worse and are currently rolling around in it like two dogs in a pile of poo.

He heads to the ropes, climbs up, leaning against them and calls time, regular voice, and neither of them stop fighting.

Jimmy yells the second time, and that time Tony notices him, but Tim doesn't.

Which meant Jimmy had to actually wade into the fray, and physically pull Tim off of Tony. And doing so was probably a good thing. Tim's shaken, and breathing hard, and hurt, but Tony looks like a piece of meat that just got tenderized with a hammer.

"Did you even try to fight?" Jimmy asks Tony once he got Tim in his own corner and calmed down enough to not go after Tony again. Black eyes, split lip, bruised arms and shoulders, and he can't see Tony's legs or torso, but he knows exactly how hard Tim can kick when he means it. He puts an arm around Tony, letting him lean onto him, and got him out of the ring and into the locker room.

He half turns to Tim as he's getting Tony out of there. "You stay put!"

Tim nods, looking like he's coming back to himself.

"What on earth made you think that was a good idea?" Jimmy asks once he's got Tony sitting on the little bench in the changing area right in front of each shower, while he turns the water on cold.

"He's really fast when he's angry," Tony says, sounding pretty stunned about what just happened to him.

"Yeah, I know that." He helps Tony strip out of his clothing.

"I didn't. Didn't know he was that much better than last time."

"So, you thought, what? He'd punch you a few times and that'd be it? You'd dodge a little, take a few, let him win, then you'd hug, and it'd be better?"

"That was kind of the idea." Tony's staring at the bruises all over his body.

"Oh, God, Tony. He hasn't been that big, awkward, dork you could run that play with in a long time." Jimmy gently palpates his orbital bones, and Tony winces. "Not broken. Arms up. Deep breath. Does it hurt when you breathe?"

"Bit."

More gentle palpation. "Your ribs are all in one piece, too. Hands." Jimmy checks over Tony's fingers and wrists. "Looks like he didn't try that thumb lock Ziva's been teaching us."

"No."

"Good. She says it'll dislocate your thumb and wrist in one move."

"Wonderful."

"Water's cold. In you go. Stay in there until I come back for you. Where's your go bag?"

"At my desk," Tony says as he gingerly stands and steps into the shower. Jimmy doesn't hear the word that eases from between his lips as the water hits him, but he's not having a hard time imagining it.

"I'll go get it."

"Jimmy?" Tony says, after swishing the water around his mouth, and spitting out a gush of blood.

"Yeah."

"Why are you here?"

"Because he texted me ahead of time to make sure I'd show up and pull him off before he killed you." Jimmy closes the shower curtain feeling pretty sure that Tony can stay standing upright in there.

"Oh."

"Yeah. He set time at seven minutes, I got in at five, and right now I'm wishing I had shown up at four."

"Would have been a good idea."

* * *

Tim's sitting, back against the ropes, staring at his hands when Jimmy got out of the locker room.

"Did it help?"

He looks up from the split knuckles and the bruised fingers. "Yeah."

Jimmy heads into the ring, kneels in front of him, and puts one hand onto each shoulder. "That's your only freebie. This cannot happen again. And I'm _highly_ recommending you start going to counseling, in a I'm going to bug you about it every free minute I've got for a week and if you don't have an appointment by the end of the week I'm kidnapping you and you're going whether you want to or not, sort of way. You can't be this angry, and you can't be beating the shit out of Tony over it. It's not good for either of you."

"It's over."

"Really?"

Tim closes his eyes, he looks embarrassed, tired, sad, but not angry, not anymore. "Yeah. He hurt?"

"You didn't break anything."

"Good. Wasn't trying to."

"Great. Seriously, Tim, this can't ever happen again. It's one thing when we're working out together. Whole other story if you're pounding someone you're angry at. This happens again, you go to jail, so it can't happen again."

"I know. I do."

"Okay. I'm going to get his go bag."

"It's in the bottom right desk drawer. The big one."

"Okay."

* * *

Tim takes another minute of sitting in the ring, looking at the blood on his hands and the drops of it on the canvas. Most of it is Tony's. Little bit of it is his. He stands up slowly, not hurting yet, still too high on the endorphins for it, but he knows the crash is coming.

But right now, there's calm, and clarity, and peace.

And Tony was right, he needed to fight it out. Needed to get his own back for every single one of those damn jokes.

And it was probably overkill. Because letting crap like that stew for a decade isn't a good plan.

But whatever it was, he's not angry, not about Tony, not anymore.

Which means there's a shot of actually fixing this. At least, Sane Tim's driving the bus again, so… that's good, right?

* * *

Tony's still standing under the water. Only shower on, so Tim doesn't have a hard time finding it. He stays on the dry side of the shower curtain.

"Hey."

"McGee."

He sits on the little bench. "I'm sorry I fucked you over with Vance, and I'm sorry I'm screwing your team. It's not done yet. I can still take it back."

"It's done. Unless he can't pass the physical, it's done. Taking it away from him is like shooting my dad. I can't do that. He's Gibbs. I can't make him leave, not if he can still do the job."

"He can still do the job. And he'll pass the physical. Fight Club wasn't wrong, this gets you in good hard, shape."

"Yeah. I'm noticing," Tony says with sarcasm sharp enough to peel the paint off the walls.

"Tony, I know it's been years. And I know you're doing better. And I know I'm not… stable on this right now, and I probably should be talking to someone about it. But you were right, it helped, and I'm not angry anymore. And… I forgive you, for all the crap and the pranks and the shit you pulled on me."

"Good."

"And I'm sorry I had to beat the angry out."

"You and me both."

"And I hope you forgive me for all the crazy this last month."

"I do."

"So, we okay?"

"Yeah. If you are. You're not gonna get all weird again?"

"I don't know. I don't think so. You gonna superglue me to something anytime soon?"

"God, no. You'll kill me."

Tony can't see the way Tim shrugs at that, recognizing that it's not literally true, but it's true enough. The goal of not taking shit from anyone's morphed into being the guy who's dangerous enough that he doesn't get shit tossed on him in the first place.

* * *

Tony was still in the shower, still letting the cold water wash over everything and help with the swelling and bruising when Jimmy got back. Tim had already taken a few minutes to take stock of himself, and yeah, he aches, and he's sporting a few bruises, but really, he's not that bad.

Actually, he's kind of embarrassingly not that bad.

Like, this looks like a painfully one-sided fight. And he honestly doesn't know if Tony was intentionally taking it easy on him, or if five years since he's done any real time in the gym is catching up to him.

"Jimmy."

He's not paying attention to Tim, he's putting Tony's go bag, and a lot of bags of ice, on the little bench. "Hmmm…"

When he gets done Tim pulls him further aside. "Hit me a few times."

"What the hell is wrong with you today?"

"He looks like he was run over by a truck, right? I don't. If I've got a good split lip and a black eye to go with it, it's not going to look so one sided."

"So?"

"No one needs to know I won the fight. No one needs to know you had to pull me off of him. And Draga and Ziva and Vance really don't need to know that. Few more bruises'll help him save face, and right now, that matters."

"You could just have him hit you a few more times."

"Too condescending. Here, let me stand still so you can hit me and make it look like you won. Just, come on, fast, before he gets out and hears it."

Jimmy rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

"I can't get the angle right to do it for myself—" Jimmy got him fast, two quick punches and once with his elbow.

Tim shook his head slightly, as if that could somehow shut down the ringing in his ears, tasting blood, and yeah, that hurt like fuck. "That should do it."

"Yes, it should. Don't ever be this stupid again."

"I'm working on it."

"Get in the shower, before he sees you. You want him to think he did that damage, right?"

"Yeah."

"Run the water, hot, have a good soak. It'll make the bruising worse."

"Thanks."

"You two gonna be okay?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"You better be. You make an appointment with Rachel yet?"

"It's been six minutes."

"I know, and this is exactly what I mean by I am going to ride your ass on it for a week and then take you myself."

"What time is it?"

Jimmy checks his watch. "3:05."

"I'll have one by 4:00. Probably with Wolf, not Rachel."

"Okay. Just do it."

Tim nods, heading into his own shower stall.

* * *

If Tony noticed that there was steam wafting out of Tim's shower, he didn't say anything. He did, once he got out, dry off very gingerly, carefully put on his clothing, let Jimmy apply butterfly Band-Aids to the cuts on his eye, cheek, and hands, dry swallowed the four Advil Jimmy handed him, and then said to Tim, "Go through those companies' financials again. Bring in the bookkeepers if necessary, someone okayed the payments to Mason. Go find them."

"On it." And ten minutes later, when he was sure Tony was out of the locker room, he did get out, get dressed, let Jimmy bandage him up, and while Jimmy was sitting there, made an appointment to talk to Wolf in three days, and then headed to the Lab to work on one of their computers.

When he explained to Abby why he looked the way he did, (Via sign, all three of her assistants were listening in intently while trying to look like they were minding their own business.) and why he was snagging her computer for the afternoon, she understood, and was very pleased that Jimmy had made sure he got an appointment with Wolf.

The LabRats kept shooting him curious looks as he worked next to Abby. Not everyday their boss's husband shows up beaten to hell and gone and then decides to commandeer a lab computer. But neither of them said anything about it to them. So they didn't ask.

She was less pleased, when three hours later, he'd found what he considered the best possible shot of breaking this open. Not because he'd found the lead, but because the lead was in Pennsylvania, and this time of day he couldn't get there and back in less than ten hours.

"Let me guess, you aren't going to wait until tomorrow to fetch him?"

"Got a lot of brownie points I need to earn back."

She kissed his temple. (Lip was too busted up for a kiss. Jimmy's got a really mean right hook.) "See you tomorrow, then?"

"Yeah. Give Kelly an extra-long snuggle for me."

"Okay."

He was already up and talking to Draga on his cell, "Yeah, get a car. We're going to Pennsylvania. One of the companies he was doing this for is awfully small. Six people on staff, and I'm pretty sure the bookkeeper doesn't want to go to jail for this."


	16. Gibbs, NCIS

Ziva, Draga, and Gibbs all watched Tony head through the bullpen (slowly) to his desk.

He sat down, drug his chair into the center, and said, "Report."

All three of them sat there, still staring at him.

"Is there a problem?"

"No, Boss," Draga said, scooting into the center, Ziva and Gibbs following a second later.

"Are you okay?" Ziva asked.

"I'm fine."

She and Gibbs nodded, looking at each other, tucking that away for things to be talked about later. Because when you leave healthy and in one piece to have a "conversation" and come back an hour and a half later in an entirely different outfit, wet hair, two black eyes, a split lip, busted hands, and you're limping, _obviously_, you're just fine and all is right with the world.

But they also know that right now is not the time to ask about it.

So, Tony, having declared himself "fine" and requesting a report, Draga launched into pretty much the same report Tim had. Then Ziva added what she had found going through the VA joint registry, and how there were close to 5000 artificial joints that had been purchased multiple times, and God alone knew what else. Joints, pins, heart valves, things that go and stay inside bodies have serial numbers, but literally thousands of other devices get used on a daily basis by the VA, and without physically going to the warehouses and hospitals and counting up inventories to go with purchase orders, there's just no way to tell if the amount of stuff purchased is even remotely like the amount of stuff in the stores.

Gibbs explained that he had overseen Mason's processing and that his lawyer was due in tomorrow morning, and as of this point said lawyer appeared to be paid for by Mason, (he found him in the phone book) but that he'd get on checking that out. (Okay, he's actually already checked that out, but he's waiting to be told to do it to produce said information. Another hour or so and he'll volunteer that Meyers, Briggs, and Meyers is, as best as he can tell, in no way related to any of the companies they're investigating.)

"McGee's rechecking the financials, looking for an actual person who paid Mason," Tony said, not looking toward McGee's desk, not expecting him to come near unless he had a breakthrough.

The other three nodded at that. The problem with these companies is that they're huge. Somehow, somewhere an invoice shows up for services rendered by Mason, and someone in Accounts Payable handles it, but when you're talking about a company with five hundred employees it's awfully hard to find exactly who is making sure things like this happens.

"Until we've got more to go on, finish up the paperwork on the Finely case."

They nodded at that, too, and went back to work.

* * *

Half an hour into that Tony felt the familiar call of his bladder and started the long, tortuous process of getting back up again.

Yesterday, if you had told him McGee could beat him so badly his hair would ache, he would have laughed, and then laughed a bit more, inhaled long and deep, and then laughed a little longer.

Sure, McGeek's good with a gun. They all know that. And yeah, he was pissed, probably more pissed than he'd ever been, and Tony knows something about how that effects a man's fight. He was even aware of the idea that McGee'd been training with Ziva and Palmer, watched it some (though mostly his eyes were on Jimmy, when he narrated it for Ed), but somehow that didn't all connect. McGee's body is just the thing that lugs that huge brain around. Itty-bitty muscles, lots of heart, huge brains, right?

He's really not laughing now. He's also not sure he's got enough fine motor control in his hands to actually get his fly open. Now that he's not fighting, not icing himself, not moving, everything is stiffening up.

He's never been more glad to see Ziva appear in the men's room than he was just then.

"You are not fine."

He let himself show how badly he was hurting. "I know," slipped out, sounding dangerously close to a whimper.

"Do you need help?"

He held up his swollen and bruised fingers. "Yes. Can't work a zipper or button right now."

"Okay." She helped him, literally, out, and he took care of it from there while she politely ignored him. A minute later, she helped him get dressed properly. "Shall we talk about it?"

"Yes. Not here."

"Jimmy got your bag. Did he check you over, too?" She's critically assessing the parts of him she can see, holding his right hand in hers, checking over the damage.

"Yeah. He pulled Tim off of me, checked me out, made sure nothing's broken."

"Internal bleeding?"

"No. Shouldn't be. He stayed away from the soft parts."

"Good."

"Yeah, splendid." He can see she has questions, like why was Palmer pulling McGee off, where McGee is, did this do anything besides break his skin, is the problem dealt with? All of that's on her face right now. He gave her a lopsided (and painful, smiling split his lip again, and he saw her jump for a paper towel to mop up the blood) smile. "Quitting time is five. We're going home then. You're going to put me in the tub, fill it with ice, and we'll talk."

"And you just have to make it through the day?"

"And tomorrow, too. And then I'm not moving again until Monday morning."

* * *

By five, they knew that Mason's lawyer would probably take a plea. So, that was one silver lining to this massive cloud.

DiNozzo, Ziva, and Gibbs headed off. Draga was still wading through his paperwork. He was still new enough he had to actually read the forms, see what they were asking, and then fill them out accordingly.

The rest of the crew can do it on automatic.

Of course, the rest of the crew can do the work on automatic, and they're also probably spending a bit less time wondering about what the hell is going on. Because, of course, they're all in on the loop, and sure, Ziva and Gibbs didn't look like they expected Tony to show up quite that pounded, but they didn't seem particularly surprised that he was bleeding, either.

Draga's not a stranger to injuries. Yes, hand to hand combat is not the number one skill for Navy Pilots, but he did Basic just like everyone else, and he knows exactly how badly Tony's got to be hurting right now.

That's not quite true. He's got a pretty good idea, because he's never been beaten that badly, but between Basic and a few bar fights, he's got an idea of what that probably feels like.

He's worried about McGee. He had that gleeful, gonna-go-do-something-stupid look on his face when he headed off for his "conversation" with Tony. And yeah, he'd bet McGee's faster, but DiNozzo looks like he's been at it longer, seen everything, and knows all the tricks.

Draga wouldn't get into a fight with DiNozzo for the same reason he wouldn't try Gibbs, either. Sure, he's stronger and faster, but he's pretty sure he's not trickier. And, really, nothing hurts worse than getting clocked by a guy old enough to be your dad.

He was just wrapping up the last form, hoping DiNozzo didn't actually kill McGee, when his phone chirped. McGee's number. "McGee?"

"Yeah, get a car. We're going to Pennsylvania. One of the companies he was doing this for is awfully small. Six people on staff, and I'm pretty sure the bookkeeper doesn't want to go to jail for this."

"Slow down, back up," he says as he stands up, grabbing his go bag.

"Digging through the financials. One of the companies is a little firm that makes titanium bone screws. It's in… Downingtown, Pennsylvania, and we're going up there to have a chat with their bookkeeper and finding out who precisely set this up."

"Okay… Um… Are you… I mean…"

"Just get the car. I'll meet you in the motor pool."

"Sure."

* * *

Woodworking and bourbon was always good for clarity in the past. But, as he's carefully stroking the first layer of the maple stain onto Anna Palmer's crib, Gibbs isn't feeling particularly calm or clear.

Been a long time since he's been so torn between what he wants and 'the right thing to do.' Last time he felt this torn between want and right, he was looking at his new redheaded probie thinking about at least half a dozen x-rated things he wanted to do with and to her.

At least then he _knew_ it wasn't right.

This time he's not nearly so sure.

He knows he can do the job.

He knows he can do it way better than anyone else Tony can get to replace him. That's just a given. No fresh-out-of-FLETC, wet-behind-the-ears, newbie (that's what Tim calls them, right?) can match his twenty plus years on the job.

He just can't.

And honestly, anyone who'd be willing to transfer into their team, even with experience, won't be as good. Not bad, certainly. Different, of course. But he clears more cases, more quickly, with a higher conviction rate than anyone else in NCIS.

That's his team, working his rules, doing it his way…

Except it's not. Not anymore.

Because it's Tony's team, and letting him run it is the right thing to do. He's ready for his own team. He can run it. He's good at his job and knows the way to make it work. He's ready.

And he doesn't need Gibbs staring over his shoulder.

And it's not selfish to want his own team. It's not bad or wrong or anything else. And Gibbs knows he's got to go for it to really be Tony's.

Because that's just the way it is.

But if he goes, people will die. Cases won't get solved as quick. Tony's good, he's solid, his instincts are sound, but he doesn't have Gibbs' gut. He just doesn't. And soon, Tony and Ziva will have two probies, and that's a lot of untested, un-experienced, un… everything, to have on your team and watching your back.

Which means some of those people who may die may be Tony or Ziva, because he won't be there, watching their backs, and anyone who replaces him won't be as good.

He hears his front door open, followed by heavy, quick steps, searching the upstairs from the sound of it. Not Tony, he's too pissed, and honestly, too hurt, to chat tonight. Too heavy to be Jimmy, who might want to have a chat with him, touch base and see what's up. Not Draga, Draga doesn't come here, not yet. Ducky would have headed straight to the basement, so not him. Likewise, Fornell would have headed straight down, too.

He catches a faint scent of coffee and whatever that cologne Leon wears is.

"In the basement, Leon."

A second later, he hears the first step on his stairs. "Do you even use the rest of the house?"

"On occasion."

Leon looks over the crib and smiles. "Newest baby Palmer?"

"Anna. She's supposed to be on the outside middle of December. Want to get this done by Halloween."

"Good plan." He faces Gibbs, leaning against the workbench. "So… What's this bull McGee's telling me about you being born in 1960?"

Gibbs stares at the ceiling and sighs. "Probably a bad idea."

"Uh huh," Vance says in that exceptionally understated way of his. "I understand DiNozzo and McGee had a conference this afternoon as to the suitability of this plan, and worked on reinforcing proper respect regarding the chain of command?"

"Something like that."

"And is the chain of command in place?" Leon asks, pointedly.

"I think so." (He'd checked in with Abby before heading out, making sure Tim was in fact in one piece. He was fairly sure he would be, he knows how much better Tim is at fighting now, but he did want to make sure. It sounded, from her, that things were… better… between the boys. But none of them will really know until they see Tim and Tony together.)

"Good." Leon took a form out of his jacket pocket and unfolded it on Gibbs workbench, then poured himself a drink. "1087 B. It's filled out and signed."

Gibbs looked at it, the form that allows for exceptions to the mandatory retirement age.

"No need for McGee to go and perjure himself to get you another year."

"Thanks, Leon."

Leon shook his head. "There's a whole ball of strings attached to that, Jethro."

"I know."

"Do you?"

"I do now."

Leon took another sip of his drink. "Is DiNozzo ready? You two just pulled the rug out from under him, and he didn't have a clue until after. And not to put too fine a point on it, but literally beating McGee into submission isn't precisely the level of leadership skills I expect out of my premier team."

"He's ready. That fight's been brewing for years. Needed to happen."

Vance looks intrigued by that. DiNozzo pounding McGee at least on a metaphorical level seemed to happen fairly often, why there'd be any need for physical reinforcement was curious. Brewing for months could be fallout of Tim running the team while Tony was out. Years meant something else was up. "Needed to happen?"

Gibbs shakes his head. "More personal than work."

"So you're saying I probably shouldn't go and watch the surveillance footage of the gym from this afternoon."

"I think if they had wanted you to see, they would have invited you."

Vance nods. He taps the form. "If he's ready…" _You don't need to stick around _is loud and clear.

"I know. He can do it. He'll do it well. But…"

Vance nods at that, too. He's fifty. He knows that as Director his job doesn't have a get-out-of-town date attached to it, but he also knows that in the next five years he's going to start getting hints along those lines. "Date on the form is October 15th. Don't need it back until then. Take it. Think. Talk to him."

Gibbs nods.

"Jethro, there's more to NCIS than just hot cases. We need recruiters. We need instructors. We have a whole team going through cold cases in DC alone. We need translators. You speak what, four languages?"

"More."

"You wanna run classes on sniper skills or tactical assessment or interrogation technique; I'll set you up for it. Things are still unstable in Crimea, you want to head to the Black Sea, find a nice port city, hang out, read newspapers, and keep your ear to the ground, I'll send you."

"Spying mission on my own?"

"Passive intel gathering. Just feet on the ground seeing what's going on, but yeah, I'll send you. You do speak Russian, right?"

"Da."

"Wouldn't be like your cloak and dagger days. More like retired tourist keeping an eye on things, but, you want it, we can do it."

Gibbs looks at the crib and shakes his head. "I need to be closer to home. A week or two, fine, but I can't miss my girls for too long."

Leon smiles at that. "Know that feeling." He takes one more sip. "Even if January is the end of your days as Team Leader, it doesn't have to be the end of your days being useful."

Gibbs shrugs at that. "Pushing paper doesn't do it, ya know?"

"Yeah. I know." It had taken a full half year for Leon to get used to not jumping up to handle field assignments. "But it's not useless, either. And we do need talent scouts, and we do need people who have been there and done that to teach the younger ones."

Gibbs just looks at Leon, getting across exactly how much that's not what he wants to be doing.

Leon nods at that, he gets it. "So, let me see these newly discovered documents. I poked around on the computer records he built you, and they're clean."

Gibbs led Leon upstairs, and showed him his "new" birth certificate, first driver's license, first report card, and a few other odds and ends.

Leon studied them carefully. "Good work. Where'd he get the paper?"

"They're the originals. Abby lifted the old ink and made new ink to match it. Tim's better at copying handwriting, and owns the typewriter for the rest."

"Yes, I know how good he is at copying other people's handwriting. Especially DiNozzo's and yours."

"Thinking of an assignment for him?"

"Not right now. We've got people who do this when I want it official. But it's good to know that if I ever don't want it official, I've got someone who can do this."

"According to Abby, unless the exact right bit of the paper gets carbon dated, there's no way to tell it's forged."

Leon nods, then stands up. "You get some quiet time tomorrow, head over to HR and take a look at what all we've got going on that you don't need to be under fifty-seven for."

"Okay."

* * *

"When you said McGee was really coming along, I didn't realize you meant you were turning him into a ninja." Tony was sitting on the edge of their bathtub.

"When we were talking about that, I didn't realize you were intending to get into a fist fight with him." Ziva turned off the cold water tap to their tub, and then poured two bags of ice into it. "In you go."

Tony very gingerly slipped his body into the icy water, hissing and cursing as he eased into it.

She sat on the edge of their tub, soaking a washcloth in the frigid water to make a cool compress for his face. "Are you going to tell me about it?"

"What's there to tell? Papa Smurf is scared. Brainy Smurf is pissed. Put the two of them together, and I get screwed."

"Tony." She smiles sadly at him.

"I think I've got McGee handled. He says he's not angry anymore. Says he forgives me. Once this blew up, I knew we'd get here. I told him then that if he needed to beat it out, we'd do it. There's only so much angry a person can hold without fighting it out so, this isn't a surprise." He gestured to his current state, though honestly he didn't think Tim would have been able to hurt him this bad. Jimmy was right, he had a mental image of Tim that was probably a few years out of date, especially when it came to stuff like this. "I mean, we all knew yelling didn't do it for him. But… God the thing with Gibbs is such a mess. I didn't think he was so pissed he'd pull a full on scorched-earth policy on me."

She smiles gently at that, too. "This is fixable."

He shakes his head. "Not by me. I can't spend another year working for him, and I can't cut his head off. 'It's like dying,' he actually said that to me. How am I supposed to make him leave after that?"

Ziva shrugs, she doesn't know how he can do it. She does know that he needs to do it, because he's right, he can't work for Gibbs for another year. "We talked a little. I told him he can't stay unless you really are the Boss, and he thought about it. Didn't jump in and give me an immediate I-can-do-it answer."

"I guess that's progress."

She wrung out the washcloth, folded it into thirds, and gently draped it over his eyes.

"I need to talk to Vance in the morning."

"Why?"

"Tell him I'm keeping Gibbs."

She winced slightly at that. He takes the cloth off and looks at her, wondering what that silence meant.

"Too little, too late?"

She nods. "Perhaps something along the lines of you've got your mutineers in hand and are in control again and that anything that doesn't go through you is to be immediately reported to you and that you'll handle it?"

He slumps into the water a little further, hissing again as the back of the tub dug into his shoulder. "How did he even get the back of my shoulder? I don't remember having my back turned at any point."

"It's an arm lock that—"

"Rhetorical question. I was there. I remember."

* * *

Draga took one look at Tim and said, "So, I'm driving, huh?"

Draga's looking him over intently, seeing exactly how beat up he is. Doing so, it's occurring to Tim that while his face looks awful, and yes, his arms, shoulders, and chest hurt like hell, the rest of him is pretty much fine, and he's moving like it's fine, too.

"Sure, if you want."

They get into the car, and Tim programs the GPS while Draga pulls out.

"So, all your teeth present and accounted for?"

Tim almost flashed him a big, wide smile, but he felt the pull on the barely holding together flesh of his lip before he got very far into that gesture. So, he changed it into a nod.

"And are you and DiNozzo, okay?"

"I think so. Better than we were this morning."

"Okay… That's… You guys don't do this usually, right?"

"You mean, did you somehow manage to sign up to join a group so dysfunctional they have to routinely beat the hell out of each other to get along?"

Draga nods.

"Second time in fourteen years. First time we'd been on stakeout for three days, and it wasn't this bad." Tim settled back into his seat, looking for a fairly comfortable position, most of his bruises are on his face and hands, but there's a really tender one from his shoulder to his chest, and finding a position where the seatbelt wasn't as issue was tricky. "I don't think it's going to happen again."

"Good."

A few more miles passed in silence.

"So, is Gibbs staying?"

"I don't know. We just got us worked out. Gibbs is another story."

* * *

Gibbs stared at the form on the workbench.

"It's kinda like dying."

He probably shouldn't have said that to Tony. That was beyond a low blow. But…

But it's also the most honest thing he's said about retiring. It's not _like_ dying. It is dying. 'Leroy Jethro Gibbs, NCIS.' 'Gibbs, NCIS'

He doesn't spend time doing cop things. He _is_ a cop. That's… not his whole life, but it's so damn close. At least ten hours a day, five days a week, and most weeks it's probably closer to nine hours six days. He thinks of cases when he's not working them, he works them until he drops or solves them, he hasn't taken a vacation since his last honeymoon. Hasn't taken a break since he left with Franks, and even with that, he was driving Franks buggy, fixing everything that wasn't nailed down.

He's a cop. He's been a cop for twenty-two years, twenty-three years four days before he retires. If he retires. He touches the form again. Another year. Three hundred and sixty five more days until he has to… become something else.

If he can.

He knows retired military. He knows retired doctors and lawyers and farmers and accountants and… and just about everything.

But he doesn't know a lot of retired cops. Because the ones he made friends with, the ones he liked, they lived the job. It was their end all and be all and when they weren't on the job, there wasn't anything else.

And when they retired, they died, and not in the metaphorical sense of the men they used to be shriveled up and vanished, but in the literal within a year their wives/kids stuck them in a box and buried them sense.

The guys he knows that are still around are like Mike; they burned out on it. They left by choice. They didn't get booted out. The ones who were forced out, they didn't do so well.

Because when your whole life is the job, you just don't keep going when it's gone.

So, his whole life can't be the job.

His fingers trace over the form. The right thing to do. What he wants to do. The right thing for him, or the right thing in general. He can remember the version of him Mike showed him, the one who did the 'right thing' and let Hernandez go. That broken shell of a man, living on bourbon and hate.

But that was the 'right thing.' Just not the right thing _for him_.

But this time it's not just about the right thing for him. It's the right thing for Tony, and by extension, Ziva, too. It's the right thing for his kids.

But it feels like throwing himself on his own funeral pyre.

* * *

Gibbs knocked on the door to Tony and Ziva's place. It's… not late, but given how badly pounded Tony was, he's thinking Tony's not staying up late.

Ziva opened it a few seconds later, and looked mildly surprised to see him.

"Can I see him?"

"I'll check."

She headed off to their bedroom, and he heard quiet voices. Two minutes later she was back, and nodded again. But he can see she's wary, so he smiles a little at her, letting her know that Tony won't regret this.

Tony's in the tub, lounging amid the ice cubes, and from the looks of it, they're helping, but he's got to be hurting fiercely.

He doesn't let it show, much. But between having been hurt like that, and being able to read Tony better than almost anyone on earth, Gibbs knows.

"Gibbs."

He held up the form. "1087 B, filled out by Vance. He's given me until the 15th to hand it back in." Gibbs turned his back to Tony, so he can't see his face, can't see the pain of this. Then he ripped the form into little pieces, dropped them into the toilet, and flushed. He swallowed once, and then twice, opened his mouth, and then closed it, not sure if his voice would hold.

Two more seconds, the only sound the rushing of the water. Then he was sure he could hold for it. "January 15th. That'll be my last day."

Tony nods at that, and Gibbs heads out, he doesn't want to talk, and he doesn't think Tony does either.

Ziva hugs him as he gets ready to head off, holds him close for a long minute, then reaches up on her tip toes to kiss his forehead.

He burrows his face against her shoulder, and stands close to her, not sure what happens next, but eventually he pulls back and head out of their home back toward his own, feeling hollow, aching from the sense of nothing left to do.

The fact that it's the right thing doesn't make it any easier.

In the end, though, as he told Penny, he doesn't need Rachel to tell him how to be a good Dad to his boys. That's still true, no matter how much he wants the job. But he's feeling very sure he is going to need her help when it comes to not falling apart over this.


	17. Embracing the End

When he gets home, he opens up his computer, not really sure what he wants to do.

Not true.

Not really comfortable with what he wants to do.

What he wants to do is call Rachel up and just talk to her. Well, what he'd really like to do is actually see her, share a cup of coffee, and talk to her. But he knows that's a bad plan. They are, as she made very clear, not dating. Technically, she's not actually a friend. He can't just call her up at 8:53 on a Thursday night just to talk because he had a bad day.

But, God, he wants to. She'd sip her coffee, listen attentively, ask good questions, help him sort out his head in a way that woodworking just doesn't.

In a way that isn't lonely.

But he can't ask her to come over. Can't suggest going to her. This little fantasy of talking to her, her on his sofa, listening to him, is already dangerously close to over the line, and actually seeking her out would be way over the line.

So he won't.

But he can email, and ask to shift this week's assignment. In that it's October and his thirty-sixth wedding anniversary is creeping up on him, he's supposed to be coming up with a plan for what he's going to do to mark the day.

He can ask to put that off, right? That's within bounds, right?

So, he opens his email account, and begins to hit the compose button when he looks to his contact list on the left and sees the little green dot next to Rachel Cranston.

He's aware of those dots. Noticed them before. But he doesn't know what they mean.

He pulls out his phone and flashes a text to Tim. _What's the little green dot next to someone's name on gmail mean?_

Three minutes later he gets back _I'm fine, too. Thanks for asking. How are you?_

He rolls his eyes. Apparently Tony didn't beat the sass out of Tim. _Frustrated. I don't know what the green dot means. Abby said you were okay._

_It means the person's online._

_So if I send an email they'll get it immediately?_

_Yeah. Or you can chat with them._

_How's that work?_

_Double click on the name, little box pops up, type. Who you talking to? Tony?_

_No. Already talked to Tony._

_How's he doing?_

_Better than he was two hours ago._

_?_

_Tomorrow or the next day._

_How's he doing physically?_

_In the tub, soaking in ice water, looks like you hit him with a wrecking ball. Abby said you're fine. Really?_

_Sore, bruised, lot better than he is. Can't wait to get out of this car. Seat belt hurts like hell. Should have had Jimmy check my collar bone, wondering if he cracked it._

_Why are you in a car? Getting x-rays?_

_No. It's cracked or not, treatment's the same either way. Not worth the trip to the emergency room. Tracked down a lead in PA. Snagged Draga, heading north. Traffic on the beltway means we're just hitting the middle of Maryland right now._

Gibbs is glad to hear he's got a lead, more happy yet that he's following it, but then something else hits him. _Did you tell Tony you found a lead?_

There's a minute where nothing comes up on his phone, and then one word flashes up. _Shit. _Two minutes later: _Done. Have gotten permission to go to PA and hunt down lead. I wouldn't mind if he thought I worked this late in the lab and just left._

Gibbs shakes his head. Ziva's right, Tim needs to go. He's beyond ready. There's taking initiative, and then there's you're in charge on your own. He knows he wouldn't be thrilled if Tim just ran off, snagging another agent, on his watch without at least a heads up as to what's going on.

_Good plan. _He types. Tony doesn't need to know, this soon after the two of them blowing up, that Tim's on his own.

_So, who you want to chat with?_

_Tomorrow. Dinner. Your place. They're not going to be hosting Shabbos. Hate texting._

_No problem. See you then._

He double clicks on Rachel's name and a little box did appear in the lower right corner of his screen. Sort of like texting then, but at least for this he's got a real keyboard.

So… how do you start this?

_Hi_

He's feeling stupidly off balance waiting for the response. Half-afraid that he's intruding on her, half-nervous that she just won't respond, but mostly feeling foolish that he's so out of sorts he can't wait until Monday and just talk to her then.

_Hello Jethro._

He feels like he can hear her voice as those words pop up on his screen.

Now what?

_Can I change my assignment for this week?_

_Having trouble?_

_No… Not like that. Lot happened this week. Wanna talk about it._

_That's not a problem. How about you send me an email, get me up to date, and we can hit the ground running on Monday?_

_That sounds good._

The screen stays blank and he's not sure how to sign off for this.

He types _goodnight _but deletes it before hitting enter.

_I'll have it in your inbox by tomorrow. _That he does hit enter for.

And a few seconds later he gets back. _Looking forward to it. See you Monday._

* * *

It took him close to three hours to get it all out and it's probably the most… real… thing he's ever tried to put into words.

It's rambling, and doesn't make a ton of sense, but the swings are there, that resignation he had before Tim gave him the out, the elation of getting another year, the desperate grab for more time, feeling like shit for pulling it on Tony, guilt for that, ripping it up, burning the bridge, and now this just sort of numb, terrified hopelessness.

Not knowing what to do, what comes, next.

Being scared by that, too.

How he's afraid he needs more than just the kids and grandkids. How he's afraid that until he finds it, he'll be clinging to them so hard they'll get sick of him. That he's afraid there isn't more, not for him.

That he doesn't know who he is if he's not a cop.

That getting booted out is so fucking unfair. It'd be one thing if he couldn't do the job anymore, but he's getting shelved because he's… inconvenient and expensive. And he's angry at it. Angry at Tony right now, even though he probably shouldn't be. Tony's more than within his rights to want his job, he's earned it, he's put the time in, and Gibbs' clock has almost zeroed out so suddenly adding more time wasn't fair, either.

But running out when you can still do it… He's good at his job. He's probably one of the best at his job, but being the best, or near best, doesn't matter, because it's not a meritocracy. That makes him want to rage.

But mostly, through all of it, is scared. For almost twenty-three years he's always known what he was going to do the next day. He was going to get up, grab a shower, throw on some clean clothing, and then do the job. And maybe nothing else would be stable, or make sense, or make him feel good, but that's always been there.

And come January 16th, it won't be.

But sitting in front of his computer won't solve it. Nothing'll solve it. The clock won't go backwards, and it keeps running forward, closer to tomorrow. So he heads to bed. Might as well try to get some sleep.

* * *

It's not like he usually springs out of bed with a song in his heart and joy in his soul. It's more like he sort of grumbles his way out. His team… he sighs… Tony's team, knows he's about as much fun as splinter under your fingernail until he's got some coffee in him, and stomping out of his nice comfortable bed, and usually fairly pleasant dreams, does nothing to make that any better.

But he's fairly reliable about wake up, get up, get showered, get dressed, eat, and out the house. He doesn't laze around in bed. He doesn't linger in the shower. He's a Marine, and Marines are up, in, out, and done. (Shannon used to have a rather off-color joke about that, one he had appreciated greatly. Though back in those days, he didn't go sprinting out of bed right after waking up if he didn't have work. In fact, before Kelly, on several occasions, they didn't make it out of bed for anything but food and the bathroom. He misses those days.)

He doesn't have an alarm.

Doesn't need one.

His body knows when to get up, and it doesn't matter when he went to bed, he's up when he needs to be.

But this morning, he's just… laying there, not really feeling like it's worth getting up.

And the little mental pep talk (bad guys to get, people to arrest, lives to save) isn't exactly revving his engine. He finally wills himself out of bed by the sheer fact that if he's late to work and doesn't give them a reason for it, they'll send out the Mounties to go find him.

And lying in bed in a bad mood is nothing he wants to expound on, let alone why he's in the bad mood.

* * *

He gets in after Tony and Ziva, and if anything, Tony looks even worse today than he did yesterday. Every bruise that was still hiding, or chased into the background by cold water and ice is on vivid display this morning.

He'd sipped his coffee, put the cup down, opened his mouth to say, "Go home, Tony," and then shut up.

He's not the Boss. He doesn't get to decide if Tony stays or not, and right now, feeling like he's holding onto Leader by his fingernails, doing anything to undermine that is a bad plan.

"We got Mason and his lawyer in?" comes out instead.

Tony nods toward Ziva who is reading up on Tim and Draga's notes. "They'll be in a ten. McGeek and TechSupport Mark II are both grilling Eva Flanders, the bookkeeper at Herden's Titanium Works. Should get a report back in an hour or so about them moving up the food chain. Ziva's playing catch up for talking with Mason and his lawyer. You're going to go in there with her, look menacing, and if any of her questions get to him, make a note of it. We'll send McGee and Draga in on the second run."

"I can do that."

And he did. Because he loves the job. Because doing it feels right. And even if he's not the Boss, the rhythms of a case, of paperwork, of puzzles to solve and people to save are his life.

He's sitting next to Ziva, keeping a close eye on Mason, and as he does it he feels his silence coming back. Not that he'd ever gotten particularly talky at work, but the shield of no words will help keep fear and sorrow, not tamed down, but hidden.

It'll help get the job done, and if he can only do it for two and half more months, he'll do it as much, as fully, and as well as he can.

But he can't talk about it, because if he does, it'll show through his voice.

The end is near, and he can't pretend any more that it isn't.


	18. Deeper Than It Looks

"So, where are we going?" Draga asked as they pulled onto I-495 and traffic came to a dead stop.

"Downingtown, PA."

"Where's that?"

"North."

Draga's answering look was a pretty clear, _that was amazingly useful, thank you oh so much._

Tim shrugged back at him. "I did a quick google. It's six hours from here. Bit outside of Philadelphia."

"I take it this isn't uncommon?" Draga asked, staring at the parking lot of cars in front of them.

"I've lived here for more than a decade and the entire time some part of the 95 interchange has been under construction and mucking up the rest of it."

"Wonderful."

"Yeah, there's a reason to live inside DC if you can possibly afford it."

"Or don't have kids living with you."

Tim thought about that for a second and made the connection between Draga and his son. "There are some really great private schools."

"Uh huh."

Tim thought back and remembered what Draga was making these days. "Kevin's starting kindergarten next year?"

"Yeah."

"Maryland's got great schools, but not right next to DC. Supposed to be some good charters near DC."

"But you get into them by lottery, and the Virginia side has great schools, but I can't afford it." Draga sighed. "His mom's lawyer's harping on the fact that where she is the schools are better."

"Don't they have programs in DC for cops and schoolteachers and nurses and stuff, try to get them into better neighborhoods?"

"They do. I don't qualify because I'm a Fed and make too much money."

"That sucks."

"Yeah."

"Ziva and I used to live in Silver Springs. Schools were okay there."

"Okay. Not great. Not terrible. Anywhere in the areas I can afford, I've got to be able to come up with tuition to one of the private schools to get a better education than he can get where he's living now."

"And tuition is too much."

"At the places I've checked. They all say financial aid is available, but I can't apply for him if I don't have custody, and I can't get custody because I can't prove that I can get him adequate schooling. At least, that's where the argument is right now."

"I'm really sorry."

"Me, too. On the upside, her lawyer is offering summers, Christmas, and spring break, so that's him bending to some degree. Before it was just every other weekend, and if I couldn't get down there for him, too bad."

"You gonna take it?"

"Right now, I'm thinking I am. Trying to get my lawyer to make sure there's something in there about revisiting the agreement in three years."

Tim nodded, he got that. In three years, Draga will be up three levels and making enough to afford a better place to live or tuition.

* * *

"So, what's going on with you and DiNozzo? I mean… Okay, you're working this out by beating the shit out of each other, but… What's the actual problem?" Draga asked a few minutes later as they sat in gridlock, staring at cars just sitting still.

Tim shrugged and shook his head. "Like I said, lot of it's personal. Professional bit you know about."

"You gonna be working in the lab forever?"

"No. Just, you know, sometimes it's a good plan to make yourself scarce for a bit."

"Yeah, I know that. Gibbs sticking around?"

"I don't know. Probably not."

That surprised Draga.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Thought if anyone would know, it'd be you."

"It probably would be. I'll lay odds on him not staying. You ever get caught between what you want and the right thing to do?"

"You mean like not kidnapping my son?"

Tim glanced over and saw that Draga may be playing that for a joke, he wasn't nearly joking as much as he should be. Granted, Tim was feeling a bit edgy on the idea of one, maybe two, nights without seeing Kelly, so the idea of only seeing her summers and at Christmas would drive him insane.

Draga saw Tim get it, and Tim nodded back at him. "Actually, yes, probably a lot like that. It'd be good for you, but probably not for him, not in the long run. Same thing with Gibbs and Tony. Gibbs sticks around another year, that's good for Gibbs, bad for Tony."

"But Tony's Team Leader, why is Gibbs there a problem?"

"It's like the difference between driving with whoever taught you how to drive in the seat next to you, and driving on your own."

Draga seemed to understand that. "New team for Tony?" he asked, still brainstorming.

Tim sort of squinted at Draga, (and stopped that fast, his eye aching) honestly shocked that he'd ask that. "Think they have leaderless teams just hanging around waiting for a new person? You get a team by being around when the old leader leaves. But say there was one, what happens to you and Ziva in a year when Gibbs leaves? Or say you and Ziva go with him, where does Gibbs go? Just like there's no new team hanging out waiting for Tony, there really isn't one for Gibbs. We haven't put any new field teams on the ground since…2008? I don't remember, but they did offer Tony the one they were forming in Rota and he didn't take it."

"So, you're saying it's going to be a damn long time before I hit Senior Agent?"

"He'll age out in ten years. And who knows, if Russia makes a move on Estonia, maybe we'll start building up in Europe again, and end up with more teams to handle increased boots on the ground, but… You might be the low guy on the totem pole for a while. It's not a bad thing. You still get raises every year, or few years once you've been in for a bit, you still move up, Vance is good about making sure talent doesn't just sit there-"

"Hence your lateral move?"

"Technically it's lateral and quite a bit up. I got offered Okinawa back in '10. That was the last new Cybercrime team. Field agent still worked better for me than desk jockey back then, so I declined. Asked for Cybercrime DC and got okayed for it back in… March? So my move's been on the books for a while. But, I'm still here because I can't go there until Jenner heads off, and he's taking his sweet time looking for his perfect next job. The only reason I can shift into head of Cybercrime is because I'm better than the second and third in commands and happen to be the guy the Director calls in for all of his personal hacking. Otherwise I'd be stuck until they opened a new team. It's like any other business, can't move up unless someone moves out, or they expand or reorganize forces. None of that's happening right now."

"So, really, damn long time?"

Tim shrugged. "Technically, I was a Senior Agent for less than four months. Ziva's never been a Senior Agent. Few more months, I'll run my own department. Excellence counts for a lot here. Be better at your job than anyone has any right to expect you to be, and Vance will work with you to make sure you're properly taken care of."

* * *

The sun had set and they were well out of DC when Tim felt his phone buzz. Text from Jethro asking, of all things, how gmail worked.

Why not? He shook his head slightly and started talking him through it, idly wondering who Jethro wanted to chat with.

_Did you tell Tony you found a lead? _Popped up on his phone after he explained where he was and why.

He stared at that text and cursed under his breath. Then he texted what he said. Then he started quickly texting Tony, getting him up to date. He didn't ask permission to go. It's written as an update. Here's what I found, I'm on the lead, taking Draga along, will send more when I know more, sort of thing.

A few seconds later, he got one back saying that Tony wanted updates as fast as he had them and that Mason and his lawyer were due in in the morning, and if he had it cracked before they came in, they'd appreciate that.

_On it._ he typed back to Tony, and then got back to texting Jethro.

Once that was wrapped up, he said to Draga. "Just remembered to let Tony know where we are."

"Isn't there a rule about that?"

"Number three, never be unreachable." He held up his phone. "Obviously, I'm reachable. And Abby knew where we were going."

"But Tony didn't."

"Did you tell him?" Tim asked.

"When would I have? During the fifty seconds between 'get a car we're going to Pennsylvania' and getting the car, or the minute between that and you popping up next to the car?"

"Good point. He does now."

"He's really not your Boss, is he?"

"Apparently not."

* * *

Zero for two on being a good team player. _Wonderful._ He used to be good at this. He used to be the most reliable one of the three of them on the not just wandering off and doing his own thing aspect of this job.

When did that change? When he took over the team or when Tony moved up?

Both things happened so close together he couldn't really tell. He'd only been working for Tony two days when Tony got hurt and he took over for two weeks.

Was it that he couldn't see Tony as his Boss, so he was just on his own, doing his own thing, or did running the whole show shift how he saw his job?

Tim didn't know, didn't care. Either way, this had to change. Okay, fine, Tony wasn't his Boss, (even if, right now, he technically was) but he was the Team Leader, and he needed to know where the whole team was and what they're doing at any time. So he could, you know, lead the damn team.

Or put this way, eventually Tim'll have a pile of computer techs working for him, did he want them just going their own way without at least a heads up?

Actually… that was a good question.

He mulled over it. What level of I-know-exactly-what-you're-doing did he want? He wasn't a micro manager. He knew that. He didn't want hourly updates from everyone about precisely what they're doing.

Ultimately… maybe… set the task with daily check ins… Let him know if there was a big break… That sounded decent. Given what he knew about his soon to be employees (not all that much) that might work. Of course, given the current quality of the work they were doing… more frequent check-ins may be necessary.

He'd seen their resumes, so he knew that once upon a time there was talent in Cybercrime, it just seemed to have drained out of the people down there.

But, eventually, he wanted to be able to give them a task, and have them handle it, and report in only when they came up with something he needed to know. Kind of like how Vance handled Gibbs.

Like Vance… that wasn't a bad template… Maybe…

Teams. 'Like Vance' worked better if he had teams. Each problem comes in, assign a team to it, foursomes… web specialist, database specialist, code wizard, hacker… Whoever had the most specialties on whatever it was got the leader position, and he'd check in with Tim. Swap 'em around so everyone got some leadership time…

"McGee…"

"Mmm…"

"What's up? Lots of texting and then you went dead silent."

"Oh… Nothing. Just thinking of how to reorganize Cybercrime."

"Oh."

"Yeah… Kind of a mess down there. And, haven't done a whole lot of running the show. So, gotta figure out how to do that."

"It'd be nice to not be completely clueless on day one."

"Something like that."

* * *

They were in Northern Maryland, getting gas and "dinner." Tim was fueling up the car while Draga foraged for food and drinks from the Wawa.

"So, how does this work. We get one room, two?" Draga asked when he came back, setting a bag with subs and two sodas on top of the car.

Tim picked up the soda and held it to his left side of his face, eye to lip, making a quick mental note to get a bag of ice. With each additional mile they drove his shoulder ached more and more, and his eye was throbbing. "They let us expense up to seventy-five dollars for food and lodging per-diem. So, usually one of us gets the room, and the other gets the food, and that way everything gets covered. But, if you want your own room it's not a problem. I'm good either way."

"Okay."

He put the soda down and began googling away while Draga started unwrapping his dinner. "Least expensive thing I can find is ninety a night."

"One star roach motel?"

Tim flipped his phone around and showed Draga the picture.

"Wonderful. I'd prefer not getting bedbugs. What's the least expensive three star place?"

Tim changed his parameters. "One twenty-three."

"How's that work?"

"Form E-458-B, we pool all of the receipts and expenses, and they cut one of us a check, and then we split it."

"Lovely. One good thing about an aircraft carrier, your bunk goes with you."

"We can sleep in the car."

"I'm thinking no on that," Draga said, shaking his head.

"Good. I hate sleeping in cars." And right now, the idea of trying, with as bad as he was hurting sounded like the torments of the damned.

* * *

It was well after 1:00 when they got to the Fairfield Inn in Exton. (If there are hotels in Downingtown proper, they either cost too much to hit Tim's search, or aren't online. Either way, they're in the next town over.) It was a basic, no frills, hello-business-traveler-on-a-tight-expense-account kind of place.

It was clean. Smelled decent. Not too hot, not too cold. They had a room with two beds. Bathroom was functional. There was a coffee maker. Wi-fi worked. It was good enough, and better than some of the rat traps Gibbs had picked for them over the years.

Way better than Afghanistan, not as nice as the place they were in in Lejeune.

By all rights, Tim should be able to chug a few Advil, brush his teeth, slip into his pajama pants, burrow under the ice packs they picked up at the Walgreens, and crash, not moving until the alarm kicked him out of bed six hours from now.

But he wasn't having an easy time settling, feeling edgy, and apparently Draga noticed.

"First full night away since she was born?"

"Yeah." Tim nodded, lying down, shuffling the ice around. He hated feeling cold, hated the way he ached more, hated the way he'd be stiff as concrete if he didn't ice down even more than that. "Feels weird to not at least touch her every day."

"I know. You thinking we'll be home tomorrow?"

"I really hope so."

"Okay. Gonna get a swim," they had to walk past the indoor pool to get to their room, "blow off some of the drive."

"You have swim trunks in your go bag?" Talk about non-standard equipment.

"It's one in the morning. Who's gonna notice I'm in boxers?"

"Good point."

* * *

1:53, he was still awake. Starting to really wonder if Tony did crack his collarbone. Felt like he had a tooth ache in there, that hot, swollen, sick, slow throb of an ache. Too soft mattress, too cold from the ice, too hurt to take it off, tired but edgy. Add in no Abby next to him, and he hadn't seen Kelly, and yeah, all of the things that say SLEEP, NOW weren't firing, because they weren't here.

Granted, there was a fairly… easy… solution to this issue. Well maybe not solution. It'd probably work. He'd never tried it when he was this hurt. But it usually solved not sleeping pretty well.

Of course, with as much as his hands were aching right now, that particular not sleeping solution might be a bit more complicated to work than usual. Plus he was really not a fan of doing it when he was sharing a room.

They'd all done it, (Okay, Tony and he had done it. He was honestly not sure about Gibbs, and didn't need or want to know.) at least once, especially when it was day three or four of the case, and they all ignored it, but… still, it wasn't anything he ever got particularly comfortable with. The whole someone might wander in and interrupt things tended to put him off his stride, so to say.

But Draga was still off swimming.

Not like he was looking to really work himself over, just wanted to blow off enough tension to fall asleep. Assuming his hands cooperated, it wouldn't take more than five minutes.

He sat back up, snagged his phone, and headed for the bathroom. Rule one of jerking off when you're sharing a room: Always use the bathroom. You do not jerk off in bed when you're sharing a room; you just don't. (You really, _really_, REALLY don't if the other guy is in the room with you.) Even Tony, who was not exactly discrete in his habits, knew this.

The bathroom had those lights that turn the fan on as well, so no shot of whomever else is in the room hearing what was going on in there, which was nice. He locked the door, because… well, because between boarding school or the Marines, neither Tony nor Gibbs really got the idea that you don't just walk in to use the head/brush your teeth if another guy was in there. And he didn't think Draga was likely to be any more sensitive to the idea of closed door meant don't come in than either of them.

He opened up some good pictures of Abby on his phone, went for the ones of her tied up from their honeymoon… very, very good pictures… they set the right mood very quickly. (And reminded him of how long it'd been since he tied her up. Way too damn long!) He sent her a cock shot to perk up her morning. Along with the caption, _Thinking of you_.

It was about ten seconds short of the worst possible time when phone vibrated to let him know he had a text. He practically dropped it, so startled by that, and then had to decide if he was going to finish first or read the text.

It was from Abby. That made him stop, and check it out.

_Having a good time?_

_I was._

_Bad timing?_

_Yeah._

_Don't let me stop you. Maybe a bit of one handed texting?_

_XO. Love you. Completely fried. Hands not working well enough for one-handed texting. _He can text or jerk off, not both, not today.

_Love you, too. See you tomorrow?_

_I hope so._

_Well, get back to your good time. I'll tell you about mine tomorrow._

_I'll be thinking about it._

_XOXO_

And yeah, it didn't take more than another minute, ramping back up again, especially with good pictures and images in his mind, wasn't time consuming, but he was feeling awfully loose and relaxed by the time he hit the bed again. (Plus an orgasm was a way better pain killer than Advil, for, well, the minute or so he was high from it.)

He was just about asleep when he started to wonder if Draga actually was getting a swim, or if "getting a swim" meant taking advantage of the likely to be completely empty locker room.

He smirked at that, and fell asleep.

* * *

Eva Flanders, long-term bookkeeper for the Herden Titanium Works, lived in a pleasant, little house on a suburban street lined with other pleasant, little houses and large maple trees, blazing scarlet in the October sunshine. They all looked like they were built around the end of World War II and the effect of the whole thing could be described as "quaint."

Draga knocked. Tim already had his ID out.

If Betty White had a twin sister, she was standing in front of them, looking mildly confused at the two men on her doorstep at 8:00 in the morning.

"Hello?" She stared at them for a second, apparently seeing Draga first, and then her eyes settled on Tim, and she shrieked, slammed the door, and bolted it.

"Ma'am, we're with NCIS. We just want to talk to you," Draga said politely.

Footsteps scampering away from the door met those words.

"I'm calling the cops!"

"We are cops!" Tim said loudly, holding his badge in front of the peephole on her door. Draga flashed his up a few seconds later.

She opened the door a crack, chain still in place, and glared up at Tim. "What sort of cop shows up looking like he rolled out of the drunk tank all beaten to hell up?"

Okay, yeah, he wasn't going to be winning any beauty contests today, but he didn't think he looked _that _bad. Plus his hair was neat, his clothing tidy, yes, he did have on jeans and boots, but he also had on a nice button down and a jacket.

Of course, Draga was in a suit.

He crossed his arms over his chest. "The kind of cop who actually runs into bad guys on occasion and has to make them decide to go to jail."

"Bad guy did that to you?" She said, scrutinizing his face.

He nodded.

"You should have shot him."

"I'll tell that to his defense attorney when he goes up for assaulting an officer."

She squinted up at Draga. "Why weren't you watching his back? You're partners, right?"

Draga glanced over at Tim, not exactly enjoying the way Mrs. Flanders was staring at him like he was completely incompetent. "I shot him."

"Okay, then!" She perked right up. "Come on in. I didn't get your names."

Tim flipped open his ID, and Draga got out his. "Tim McGee," he nodded to Draga, "Eric Draga, we're with NCIS and we'd like to talk to you."

"NC—what?"

"Naval Criminal Investigative Services." Tim said.

"But… I'm not in the Navy."

"No ma'am, we didn't think you were." Tim glares at Draga for that.

"We investigate crimes involving Naval personnel, their families, and Marines," Tim explained.

"You're a bit late on that fellas, Bob died back in '92."

Tim and Draga just glanced at each other.

"Ma'am?" Draga asked, as she opened the door and let them in.

"Bob Flanders, my husband. He died back in '92."

"Was he Navy ma'am?" Draga asked.

"Marine."

"Ah… And… was he murdered?"

"Lord, no." She looked appalled by that idea. "Died in his sleep."

"Okay…" Draga was staring at Tim _now what?_ on his face.

"Was there a crime involving your husband ma'am?" Tim asked.

"No."

"Ahhh… Okay." He smiled brightly at her, deciding to get to the point. "We were hoping to talk to you about your job with Herden Titanium Work."

"Why on earth would you want to talk about that? We make medical devices, bone screws, stuff like that, we don't make things for the Navy."

"Could you just tell us about some invoices?" Tim asked, taking copies of the Herden bank statements from his pocket.

"Maybe." She saw the papers. "Let me get my glasses, back in a jiff."

He nodded at Draga, letting him know to keep an eye on her. Yeah, it wasn't likely that she was about to run off, or call someone at Herden, but this not-all-there-thing might be an act, and he wasn't about to get caught sleeping on this.

So Draga looked like he was checking out the pictures on the wall, keeping her in view, as unobtrusively as a guy who was 6'2" with bright red hair could.

She shuffled back in a few seconds later, glasses on, and sat down next to Tim. "So, what do you want me to look at?"

"We found that your company was paying Ralph Mason six thousand dollars a month for web design, and we wanted to know who hired him."

She squinted at the bank records and saw the transfers to Mason Web Consulting. "Oh, gosh. Tommy does all of that. I just make sure the books balance and the checks get sent out. You'd have to talk to him."

"And who is Tommy, ma'am?" Draga asked.

She stood up and headed over to one of the pictures on the wall. It was some sort of company picnic shot, from the look of it everyone who worked for Herden was in it. She pointed to a man with brown hair and eyes, tan skin, happy looking smile. "Tommy. He took over about two years ago when Bill died." She pointed out an older version of Tommy, standing behind Tommy, hand on his shoulder.

"So, Tommy Herden?" Draga asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Do you have any idea where he'd be right about now?" Tim asked.

"He usually gets into work about noon. Stays until eight or nine. He handles second shift."

"Thank you very much Ma'am." Tim said, getting ready to head off.

* * *

"So…" Draga said as he got into the car. "We gonna get him at home, or wait for him to head into work."

"We're going to his place. Eva may be cute and sweet, but she may also decide to give Tommy a call, and if she does that, and if we're waiting at work, he may never show up."

"Okay. You want me to text Tony, let him know what's up?"

"Yes, good idea." And once again that hadn't occurred to him at all. And yes, it was a good idea.

* * *

Another modest house in a neighborhood filled with modest homes.

Draga was staring at them, shaking his head as they cruised on through, looking for Tommy's address. "I'd figure you'd be living higher on the hog if you were going to screw the government."

"He was only pulling off about 500K a month. Wasn't making a whole lot of money on their other accounts."

"So, you're saying he was only stealing enough to stay in business."

"Sounds dumb as hell, but yeah. I mean, unless he's got a whole other account or something we haven't found."

Draga shook his head as he pulled into Herden's driveway.

"So, what's the plan?"

Tim scanned the house. Then quickly looked it up on google maps. "There's a backdoor."

"Okay."

Tim thought about it. He wasn't in fighting prime right now, but he also had a hell of a lot more experience when it came to dealing with skittish perps. So… go in and take the lead, and hope Draga was ready for good back up, or let Draga take the lead and hope this went the way he wanted it to.

"I'm going to the back door. Anything goes hinky, you yell, and I've got him."

Draga looked really excited by the prospect of taking the lead. He was grinning as he said, "Let's do this!"

* * *

Tim got to the back door, and decided to just check. He turned, quietly, the doorknob, and found that it was unlocked. He opened it just far enough to unlatch it. If he needed to get in fast, all he had to do was give it a quick kick.

Tim waited at the back door, just out of sight, gun out and held down. He heard knocking, eventual sounds of footsteps and grumbling, followed up by the steps stopping dead, the sound of someone running, Draga yelling, "McGee" and then he kicked open the door, gun up, pointed at the head of Tommy Herden, who stopped dead, hands out and open.

There were certain experiences Tim just hadn't had. A man staring at him, and then starting to cry and beg him, "Please, please, please, don't kill me, please don't kill me, please, I didn't hurt anyone, please, I won't do it again, please," as his knees buckled and he fell to the floor was definitely one of them.

Draga got Herden cuffed and into the car with no problems.

"Don't even know why he bothered to run if he was going to do that."

Tim shook his head slowly. Apparently looking like you're an extra from Fight Club while holding a gun is an awfully scary combination.

"Now what?"

"We go see if the local LEOs will let us borrow their interrogation room. I want him broken and confessed before we drag him back to DC."

* * *

Tommy Herden was not what they were expecting.

Well, maybe he was.

The ten minutes of self-serving 'I'm not a bad guy, I'm just trying to keep my business going, I'm getting screwed by the ACA, really, we're not taking all that much, it's less than we're paying in taxes, everyone who works for me is family, what would you do to keep your family working…'

Blah, blah, blah.

It wasn't that Tim was unsympathetic. The waves of panic arcing off of Herden seemed genuine. He did sound like a guy with his back legitimately up against a wall trying to make things as right as he can. And as he got into the he-had-to-do-everything-he-could-to-stay-in-business-because-if-he-shut-his-doors-there-would-be-shortages-of-the-bone-screws, Tim quickly glanced at Draga, sent him a little, _give this guy a shot to be a hero_ look.

Draga nodded. Reading Tim's look, or just understanding Herden enough to know how to play this.

"Tommy, I know things are going hard for you right now, but you don't have to get sent out to dry. You're a tiny little fish here. Hell, the kind of money you were taking in wouldn't even be a rounding error by the way the Government does things.

"But you've got a shot to help us find someone bigger. You tell us how you found Mason, and I'm sure we can find a way to make things go easier for you."

And that was all Herden needed to hear. He started to sing.

* * *

He got the text from Tony, an update as to what Mason wanted, namely immunity or almost immunity for the name of the guy he was working for while he was running down the final paperwork to get Herden transferred to DC.

_Don't take it. Got everything out of Herden already. Just finishing up transfer papers. Draga's getting a warrant. More in a minute. _

His next text to Tony read: _Henry Bing, Bowie Maryland, going to get him. _

* * *

The problem with traveling with the guy you just arrested in the back seat was that you have to listen to him. And Herden won't shut up. He went on and on about he was totally getting screwed by the government, and how since the ACA went into effect they can't make enough money on the things they sell to even stay in business. Apparently Draga had done such a good job on building rapport that Herden had gotten the idea that he really felt for him.

Finally, two hours into the details of the Medical Device Manufacturer Tax, (Which, okay, yeah, if it worked the way Herden said it did, Tim could understand why he was annoyed. He was starting to get annoyed on Herden's behalf. Still didn't excuse defrauding the VA.) Draga had enough and snapped at him, "Do either of us look like a defense attorney to you? Shut up until you're paying someone to listen to you."

Herden glared, suddenly realizing his audience wasn't quite a sympathetic as he thought they were, and shut up.

* * *

When they got to Bing's place in Bowie, MD, Tim got out of the car, opened the back door, saw Herden flinch back from him, grabbed his hands, uncuffed the left hand, and then closed the cuff around the post that kept the headrest attached to the seat, then stepped out, closed the door, and locked it behind him.

"Think that'll hold him?"

"Hope so. At the very least, we'll hear it if he tries to run."

"Same routine as last time?" Draga asked.

"Sure."

"Okay. I'll give you a minute to get set and knock."

Bing wasn't home. From the looks of it, Bing left in a hurry. Several computers, all still working, were arrayed on a desk set up in the front room. Cup of coffee, stone cold, was still sitting next to the computer along with a half-eaten sandwich.

"So…" Draga asked.

"Herden still in the car?"

Draga looked out of the window.

"Yep. I don't think he's going anywhere. I'm fairly sure when you kicked down his door like the Avenging Angel of Doom you scared him into submission."

Tim smiled briefly at that, and once again remembered why the hell that was a bad plan as pain arced through his face. He turned on the monitor and got to work while Draga kept poking around. Didn't take him too long to find what he was looking for. Bing had a fairly specialized search running, still, on his computers. From what he could tell it checked the booking data of basically every law enforcement agency in the US. And apparently it sent Bing an update as soon as one of his guys got booked.

Mason's name was up and flagged. Time stamp was yesterday afternoon. Bing had twenty hours on them. Herden's name had just popped up less than an hour ago. He was tracking everyone he worked with.

Tim was reaching for his phone, getting ready to call Tony when he noticed exactly how many names Bing's search was running.

Close to eight hundred.

He took several more minutes to go hunting through his computer. Bing was in charge of… a talent agency for guys who ran scams on the government.

"Draga."

"Yeah."

"Take a look at this." He started scrolling through the information, piles and piles of it. Social security fraud. IRS fraud. Medicare and Medicaid fraud. WIC fraud. If it was government agency that had money, Bing had someone in his files who specialized in bilking them.

"Good Lord," Draga said, shaking his head, starting to dig into the data.

"Yeah."

"We don't have jurisdiction on this, do we?"

"Nope." Tim lifted his phone, hit Fornell's contact number.

A few seconds later, "McGee? Gibbs in trouble again?"

"No. What if I told you I've got the computer of someone who's got the goods on literally hundreds of guys who are scamming the government?"

"Sounds too good to be true. You handing it over because it's hot?"

"I've even got a search warrant to go with it."

"I'd say thank you."

"You're welcome. I'm at 365 Blowder Dr., Bowie, Maryland. How fast can you get guys here?"

"An hour."

"It's got some strings attached.

Fornell sounded wary. "What sorts of strings?"

"The sort where you'll probably have to hand this over to the IRS at some point."

He heard the sound of Fornell putting the phone down and muffled cursing. Then the phone picked back up. "You didn't call her, did you?"

"I don't have her number. Not like we're buddies."

He could feel Fornell glare.

"One hour."

"See you then."

"Who was that?" Draga asked.

"Our FBI contact."

"Do they have jurisdiction?"

"They've got a hell of a lot more of it than we do. And I don't want to be the guy who hands this over to IRS."

* * *

Tim made copies of everything on all the computers. Using up all of his thumb drives and Draga's.

"I see what you mean by you go through them like gum."

"Yep. Get 'em in bulk at Costco, keep em at home."

"How're you feeling?"

"Not bad." Getting into the case and the data was distracting him, but as he thought about it, Tim decided to steal a paper towel and some ice from Bing for some more ice packs. He knew that as soon as he wasn't distracted, everything was going to start hurting again.

They set a BOLO on Bing's car. Draga checked to see if he had any other modes of transportation registered in his name. Nope. Tim grabbed his lap top and began to get permissions in place for his credit cards and the like. Wouldn't be done by the time the FBI got there, but it'd be a start.

They were sitting in Bing's house, looking around, taking pictures of everything, keeping an eye out for Bing should he decide to come home suddenly.

"You know, this makes me think of Heat," Draga said.

Tim looked up from the stacks of books on Government Aid Programs. "Heat?"

"Yeah, Robert DeNiro, Al Pacino, Val—"

"This is probably a conversation for Tony."

"Okay, I won't bore you with the details. Anyway, it's about a heist that starts to go wrong. The thieves all have this, 'don't keep hold of anything you aren't willing to leave in 30 seconds flat' motto. Whatever it is, just walk away."

Tim nodded. The tracking program Bing had running on everyone he was working with, and the fact that he left it up and running certainly indicated that. Coffee on the desk. Car missing.

He saw Mason's name come up and ran.

And, judging by who he was working with, he probably had some damn good fake travel documents and aliases. Probably pile of money hidden somewhere, too.

* * *

"Good Lord, Chucky! What the hell happened to you?" Diane was looking him over, appalled at the bruises and admiring the body under them. It occurred to him that they hadn't seen each other since October of '13, and he was looking quite a bit trimmer these days.

"Hi Diane."

"You get hit by a truck?"

Tim stared at Fornell, not answering Diane's question, and asking his own with a look. Fornell shrugged. "Figured since it was inevitable, I'd share the wealth. So, did you get hit by a truck?"

Tim turned from Diane and Tobias to Draga. "Diane Sterling, Tobias Fornell, this is Eric Draga, newest member of our team."

They shook hands. "We met briefly during the Ender case," Draga said, reminding Tim that Tobias had been around for a moment on that one.

Diane was looking Draga up and down, approving calculation in her eyes. "But we haven't. It's a pleasure."

Draga didn't seem to mind Diane's attention, and smiled warmly at her. "Yes it is."

Tim elbowed him. "Draga, how about you get the custody papers from Fornell."

Fornell seemed to think that was a splendid idea, snagging Draga by the arm and pulling him to his car.

"Besides the bruises, you're looking fit, Chucky."

"Thanks."

"Married life agreeing with you?"

That got a genuine smile out of Tim, along with a wince. Really, he had to remember to keep his face neutral.

"Wanna see something?"

"Sure."

He pulled out his phone and showed her pictures of Kelly. She was cooing at them, and then got to the shot of Kelly napping on Jethro. She stopped at that one, eyes soft, and sighed.

"He looks really happy."

"Yeah, he is."

"So, really, what happened? You okay?"

"I'm fine. Enough. You know how it works, sometimes they don't just lie down and let you arrest them."

She nodded at that and decided to get to work. "So, what's all this you've got for us?"

He gestured into the door. "You'll love this…"

* * *

They were a few miles out of the Navy Yard when Draga asked, "So, what's the story with Diane?"

"No." Tim shook his head vehemently. "Don't even think about it."

"Why not?" Draga sounded honestly curious. Sassy, smoking hot redhead giving him the eye. He wasn't bugged by that idea at all. Not like he was married, or dating anyone really.

"You remember, Fourth of July party, Fornell's daughter?"

"Pretty redhead?"

"Yep. That's her mom."

"Oh." Okay, the idea of dating Fornell's ex seemed to cool Draga down a bit.

"She's also Gibbs' ex."

"Eww…" And from cool to frozen he went. "How old is she?"

Tim started to shrug, felt his shoulder scream and stopped that. "Forty-fiveish? No idea. I do know she's got a thing for Feds."

"Is this where you tell me she slept with DiNozzo back in the day?"

"Not Tony."

Eric's head snapped away from traffic to look at Tim. "Oh, God, McGee!"

"We just slept! And talked!"

"Uh huh. Just slept, huh?"

"Just slept." He nodded definitively.

"Bet she was a comfy pillow," Draga said with a sly grin.

Tim rolled his eyes and smirked.

"Are we talking about that hot lady cop?" Herden asked, reminding them he was in the backseat.

"Shut up, Herden!"

* * *

"God, McGee, you look like shit," Tony said as Tim headed into the bullpen twenty minutes later.

Tim cracked half-a-smile, raised his eyebrow a fraction of an inch, (Which hurt like hell, Jimmy's a righty, so he got all of it on the left side of his face.) looked him dead in the eye, and said, dryly, "You should see the other guy."

Judging by how people have been looking at him all day, he did look like shit. Diane might have been the first to say it, but he saw Fornell's eyes go wide at the sight of him, too. Bob, who ran the metal detector downstairs, muttered, "Good Lord" as he went through. And Seth at the coffee cart gave him a cup filled with ice without him asking for one.

Of course, there was looking like shit, and there was looking like Tony, who was in even worse shape than Tim. Tim found that oddly satisfying. Probably didn't bare thinking about too hard.

The case was closed. He had it in the tank. So, looking like shit or not, he was feeling pretty good, well-nigh giddy on the lack of sleep mixed with exactly how easily today's dominoes fell.

Tony half nodded. "What do you have?"

"I've got a confession. I've got evidence. Draga's got Herden in processing. I've got how they got hooked up with Mason. I've got the name and address of the guy who set the whole thing up. I've got eleven other companies who were also using Mason's services. The one thing I don't have is the guy who set it up. Henry Bing apparently started running as soon as we grabbed Mason. So, he's got twenty hours on us, but they'll find him."

"How does Bing even work into this?" Tony asked. He'd gotten Tim's somewhat cryptic text, but let it be, trusting that he knew what he was doing.

"Talent broker, basically. He hooked up companies with guys like Mason. From what we found at Bing's place, he was doing it for all sorts of companies and all sorts of government agencies. Say you sell something that Medicaid would pay for. Bing's the guy who hooks you up with another guy to handle defrauding Medicaid for you. You pay him ten grand, next thing you know you've got a guy who'll keep the government money flowing in."

Tony looked at Tim's desk, where Tim was not sitting at a computer, hunting away for Bing. "_They'll_ find him?"

"Once I saw how many agencies Bing was working on, I gave him to FBI. It's their turf. They've got the accountants and analysts to take care of him, and we don't."

Tony did not look pleased by that.

"We've got Mason; we've got the companies he was working with; we can get full sentences on all of them because we've got hard evidence; all of that is… kind of… our jurisdiction. But only because that artificial knee was located in a Marine. We've got no standing, at all, for going after someone who's ripping off Social Security."

That was true, but didn't touch on how it should have been Tony's decision to call in the FBI.

It took a second before Tim got why Tony was glaring at him, and he sighed, and said quietly, "Zero for three."

Curious gets added to annoyed on Tony's face.

Tim shook his head. "Few more months at most."

"Great."

"We really don't have the personnel for it."

"Not the point."

"I know. If it makes you feel any better, FBI called in IRS… I'm sure we've got at least one more confab with all three of our organizations."

Tony thought about that and began to crack a smile. Given all the shit he'd gotten from Gibbs lately, he was looking forward to the idea of making him deal with Fornell and Diane.

Tim saw the smile and added, "She really likes the look of Draga."

That got a very brief laugh, and Tim can see Tony planning to enjoy whatever happened on Monday.

"You mind if I head down and say hi to Abby."

"No." Tony looked in the direction of the stairs. "Write it all up for me, and then I'll send in Draga and Gibbs to take care of Mason and his lawyer.

"On it."

"McGee."

"Yeah?"

"Once it's written up, head home, get some sleep."

"Okay."

* * *

Relying on habit was often a sign of sleep deprivation. So, while it was true that Tim bopped pretty happily down to the Lab, it was also true that the part of his mind that was aware that someone other than Abby worked there hadn't reported for duty.

So, in he bopped, and not immediately seeing anyone else, he pulled her into what was going to be a very sexy hello kiss (that unfortunately lasted about a tenth of a second because his lip started to scream as soon as any pressure landed on it) and turned into an enthusiastic hug.

Which was when he heard, from behind him, Zelaz talking to Corwin and then stop dead mid-sentence.

It occurred to him, Abby's husband or not, her co-workers probably did not expect to see her being groped in the lab.

She was giggling softly as he stepped back. "Hello to you, too." She looked past his shoulder to Corwin. "I'm taking a ten minute break. Back soon." And then took Tim by the hands and led him to ballistics.

"I take it today went well?" she asked as soon as the door shut.

He was smiling at her, took her by the hips, lifted her to the counter they load the guns on, and snuggled in close, unbruised side of his face pressed to her throat, holding onto her for a long second before saying, "Yeah, it did."

He told her about it, holding her, smelling her skin and feeling her pulse thrum against his temple. It had been a while, since the day after Kelly was born, since he'd gone a night without any snuggle time with her. And, at least that night, he was in the same room and able to hold her hand if not be in the bed with her.

He pulled back after a few minutes, and she skirted her fingers, very gently, over the bruises on his face. "How are these?"

"Sore. I think they look a whole lot worse than they are."

"How about the rest of you?"

He laid her hand, gently on his right shoulder became chest. "He got me really good there." He pulled up his right sleeve and showed her the mottled yellow-green-purple bruises. "Other than that, I'm in fairly good shape."

"So, other than no kisses, you'd be up for something tonight?"

He grinned, flashed his eyebrow at her, smiled, (totally worth the pain that time) "Maybe tonight Lord McGee gets his revenge. Maybe he's in charge." He traced his fingers over her lips. "Maybe he's fought his way out, gotten free, and has now captured Lady Skye. And maybe Lady Skye has to earn the right to a kiss."

Abby smiled back at that. "And what would she have to do to get that kiss?"

"Good question. Gabriel'll be thinking about that. But until he figures it out, all she'll get is fingers."

"No cock?"

"That'll probably be on the menu, too."

"Good." They were both grinning at each other. "You're goofy today. How much caffeine have you had?"

"Significantly less than it would have been this time last year."

"Okay, how much sugar?"

He smiled a little. "You probably don't want to know."

She looked at him curiously and he shook his head. "No, really, not that much. I can feel it, this is that stupid so tired, everything is funny and good with a pile of everything in the case went just right."

"And let me guess, you're gonna crash in about three hours?"

"If not sooner. Gabe and Skye'll actually probably be tomorrow. Gotta write this up for Tony, then I'm going home, giving Kelly a huge hug, and probably sleeping… Or not, Jethro's coming over for dinner."

Abby looked at the clock, already 3:30. "Go fast you can get a nap."

"I'll be wrecked if I do that."

"Finish up, go home, get some food and rest. Gibbs can come over both nights. He can hang out with Kelly and I tonight, and get some time with you tomorrow."

He thought about it, and was leaning in to nuzzle against her, maybe give her throat a gentle lick (after all, lips might be split, but his tongue still worked just fine) when Benedict knocked on the door to ballistics.

Abby rolled her eyes and shook her head. Tim stepped back so she could slip down from the counter. She quickly signed to him, _when I get home, I expect to find you in bed, asleep. If you are, I'll wake you up nicely tomorrow morning._

He smiled at that and headed out of ballistics to write up that report.

* * *

"Benedict?" Abby asked, sounding annoyed.

"Got the results back from the mass spectrometer." He had a pretty sheepish look on his face, and it was awfully clear that the three of them had just been looking for an excuse to snoop on their new boss and her hubby.

"And…" she said archly.

"And it's exactly what you thought."

"Uh huh." Abby said, holding Benedict by the arm and dragging him into the main room of the lab. "All three of you, front and center: rule number twenty-two, 'Don't bother Abby in ballistics.'"

"Okay, what are rules number one through twenty-two?" Corwin asked.

"Rule number one is don't lie to Abby. Number nine is always have a spare. The rest you'll learn as I make them up. But the next time someone bothers me in ballistics, unless the world is about to end or the lab is on fire, especially if I'm having any sort of private conference in there, _very bad things_ will happen."

"Why isn't 'Don't bother Abby in Ballistics' rule number two?" Zelaz asked.

Abby sighed at them, wanted to glare, but didn't; they didn't know, and she wasn't exactly feeling like explaining. "It's just not. So, world isn't about to end, don't bug me in ballistics. I won't ever be in there for more than half an hour, so, are we good?"

"Can we use ballistics for conferences, too?" Corwin asked.

"I don't see why not. As long as the work gets done."

Three nods followed that pronouncement.

* * *

"Oh my god! Tim! Are you… What… Can I get you some ice packs?" Heather was leaping off the sofa to tend to him when he got home.

He held up a hand. "It's part of the job. I'll be fine. Kelly napping?"

"Yes."

"Okay, I'm going to head up and…" Well, watch her sleep for a little bit and maybe rest a hand on her tummy, but saying that felt weird so he didn't.

"Okay. Really, ice packs?"

"Sure, if you want to. I'll be down in a bit."

Getting used to having a nanny in the house has been kind of… weird. First of all there was this extra person in their house twelve hours a day, which was just… yeah, weird. Second of all, while it was true that Heather's there twelve hours a day right now, it was also true that Kelly sleeps for six of them, so, she keeps doing stuff… and who knew, maybe this was normal nanny stuff, but neither he nor Abby had put it on the list of things they expected Heather to do, but it kept happening and it did make things easier, but still, it felt, kind of, just… odd.

Like she did the shopping, which was cool, and a week into it she started asking what they wanted to have for dinner. She didn't cook the dinner. They never know exactly when they would get home, so getting it ready and hot was something of a challenge, but if they tell her what they intend to eat, when they came home all the ingredients would be prepped, whatever it was may be marinating, the table would be set, and all of the things they would use to cook the dinner would be laid out and ready to go.

(And if it was a slow cooker meal, it would be in there, bubbling away.)

And like, she did the laundry. They expected her to do Kelly's laundry, just can't keep a baby in enough clean clothing in you weren't doing laundry at least once a day. But she did their laundry, too. They'd find it sitting on the bed, in nicely-folded, sorted piles. Stuff that goes on hangers would be in the closet, (his shirts and Abby's skirts ironed) but she didn't put anything that goes into drawers back because… he guessed… that going into their drawers was too private.

He knew she cleaned. House was a whole lot tidier than it ever was. For example, he knew he hadn't personally dusted or vacuumed anything since Heather joined them, and he was fairly sure that Abby hasn't, either, but the dust bunnies were not freely roaming about his office, so, obviously, someone was taking care of it, and he was awfully sure it wasn't Kelly.

So, he wasn't saying he didn't like it. Having someone else do that stuff was really convenient. It just felt a little weird to have someone else do it. It was like having someone else carry your bag, yeah, it was nice, but he didn't feel like the kind of guy who had other people do stuff like that for him.

And all of that was a moot point as he eased open the door to Kelly's room, took the three (very quiet) steps to her crib, and stood there, watching her, lying on her back, snoozing away.

Almost four months old. The little brownish blond fuzz she was born with had been falling out, so right now she was almost bald on top, with a little ring of dark blond hair around the back of her head. (Pediatrician said it was normal. Penny said Tim was born with dark brown, almost red hair that all fell out by the time he was four months old, and he didn't have visible hair again until he was almost one.) If her eyes were open, he'd be able to see how they're just starting to edge toward green. And if she didn't have the pacifier in her mouth, he'd be able to see how her lips are the same shape as his. He could see that her face was shaped like Abby's (or will be as she grows).

Her eyes fluttered, and she sucked enthusiastically on the pacifier. Dreaming baby dreams of nursing, probably.

He knelt down, resting his arm on the edge of her crib and his face against his arm, and then placed his finger tips on her chest and stomach, feeling her breathe.

"Hey, baby," he whispered. "I'm home."

* * *

Watching Kelly sleep seemed to trigger his 'time to crash' mechanism, so by the time he got downstairs he was dragging (and hurting, his body hadn't bothered him much over the course of the day, but right now it was making up for that with a vengeance) and the ice packs Heather had set for him, along with the sandwich and iced-tea sitting next to them were very welcome.

He sat at the kitchen table, one pack held to his face other balanced on his shoulder as he chewed. "Thank you."

"No problem. Looks like you had an exciting day. Bad guys all put away?"

"Bad guys are in jail. NCIS, FBI, and from the looks of it the IRS are all about to have a massive field day."

"Wow."

"Yeah. Good day."

She was staring at his face. "Is this… normal?"

"Not really. Maybe once a year, once every other year, I get pounded by work, but it's usually not this bad."

She was looking at him with very wide eyes, and while he knew she was older than he was when he started at NCIS, he felt like she was very, very young. "Have you ever been shot?"

He shook his head. "Well, not without a vest. I have been blown up, twice, mauled by a dog, exposed to black plague, irradiated, fights like this… the thing in Somalia…" (Which probably qualified as torture, but he doesn't call it that, even in his own head, because he knows what they did to Ziva there.) "and frozen but, I'm the tech guy, so believe it or not, I've got the least dangerous job."

"Yeah, sounds really safe." Kind of nice to see she had some sarcasm in there.

He smiled, tiredly. "Found a guy who ran a ring that's probably defrauded the government to the tune of hundreds of millions of dollars, if not more. Put away a guy who was doing it in the ten million range. Got on that case by helping to solve the murder of a Marine. I do stuff that's more important than safe."

"I guess."

"How'd today go with Kelly?"

He listened to her talk about taking Kelly shopping and for a walk, and about how she seemed to like seeing the Jack-o'-lanterns that were starting to pop up all over the neighborhood. She asked if they had any plans for Halloween, and off the top of his head, he doesn't.

The second time she asked something and he just sort of blanked out on it, she looked at him and said, "You should probably go to bed."

And by that point, he just nodded slowly and headed back up to his bed.

* * *

A/N: The lovely Alix reminded me that Tim and Fornell did know someone at IRS. I don't have it written yet, but I have a feeling we might be getting at least one Devil's Triangle scene in the not wildly distant future.


	19. Family Saturday

He got the text from Abby as he was leaving Wolf. It'd been an… interesting? conversation. Maybe.

He'd report back to Jimmy that he went, and that's what mattered on this. At least, for right now. (Though he has a feeling that Jimmy's under the impression that this is supposed to be doing more than just keeping him of Tim's back. And maybe, eventually, it would.)

Actually, no, right now what matters is a text that says, _Gibbs coming for dinner. Down to last bottle of Angry Orchard. Pick up a few six packs, two onions, and sub rolls?_

_Sure. _He texts back.

He crashed pretty hard the night before, but at one point he was vaguely aware of the sound of voices from downstairs, and in the morning, after Abby did indeed wake him up nicely, she mentioned that Gibbs had been over for dinner and that he was likely coming again tonight. Maybe the Palmers too.

_Jimmy and Breena?_

_Just Jimmy and Molly. Breena's mom's not feeling so hot, so she's running the front of the house today._

_Serious?_

_Don't think so. Breena didn't say. Post-church Sunday dinner is still on as of now._

_Okay. Back in an hour or so._

* * *

Chatting with Abby about Jeannie being sick means that it's in his mind, so as he passes the 'Flu Shots Here' sign he decides to sign up for that as well. It'd be nice not to spend a week wishing he was dead.

_You need me home soon? _He texts to Abby.

_Nah._

_Okay, gonna get a flu shot, too._

_Good!  
_

They take his information, have him fill out some forms, and tell him it'll be a twenty minute wait.

He nods and heads off, figuring he'll wander around, get his shopping done, and that'll be that.

* * *

Somehow, between now and the last time he was at Target, all of the Halloween stuff had come out. Which is making him think it may have been a while since he last went shopping.

Oh well. He's here now.

And faced with a lot of really cute stuff.

Really cute.

Like, he'd been somewhat vaguely aware this time last year of the possibility that Halloween with a baby might be a whole lot more fun that Halloween with just grown-ups. (Or at least a very different flavor of fun. He and Abby have had some awfully good Halloweens.)

But, it's hitting him, as he's walking more and more slowly past the baby Halloween costumes, coming to a complete stop, looking at them, instead of heading to the grocery department, that, well, Kelly really needs some Halloween costumes.

Multiple ones. (After all, what tiny baby doesn't need multiple Halloween costumes?)

Because, God, they're just so damn cute.

And, before his brain even got involved in the conversation, he was holding a little green dragon (with shiny purple wings!) a tiny jack-o-lantern (God, it's so cute!), and the tiniest little black cat costume he'd ever imagined owning.

And somehow a little pair of shoes (after all, just because you can't, you know, walk, or for that matter, you spend the vast majority of your time swaddled, doesn't mean you don't need shoes, right?) tiny, tiny little shoes in black with little silver and purple bats on them, also ended up in the cart, next to the Halloween themed onesies. (Because, come on, obviously Kelly needs way more skull oriented baby gear, it's not like she doesn't have enough of that, right?)

Tim was muttering quietly to himself about how they shouldn't let him out of the house with a credit card, blaming the flu shot for him even being in this part of the Target, as he put several of the onesies back and snagged yet another tiny pair of shoes and the Halloween themed pacifiers. (After all, she's got to have the pumpkin and bat and black cat pacifiers to go with the costume, right?)

_Okay, out of here, now, before you buy the whole damn section._

* * *

Retrieving the stuff he actually went to Target to get went pretty quick, and he was in line, not really paying attention to much of anything when the idea of the dragon costume reminded him that he'd… promised… (he's not sure if he promised, he's awfully sure he mentioned it, though) Abby some sort of game tonight.

But, just because his memory of saying something to her about playing with Gabe and Skye again is kind of vague doesn't mean he didn't make that promise.

Had been an awfully long time since he's tied her or done much of anything along those lines…

He steps out of line and heads for the scarves.

Gabe's a dragon/magic user/knight sort of thing. (He's been playing with the character a bit getting more ideas of him and jotting bits down.) So… he told Abby something about Gabe being in charge tonight... That'd mean some sort of magical binding, right. So… imaginary. More just the image to keep the idea in mind than any sort of real binding.

He perused the scarves and found a few in light marbled gray. Very thin, very light, he's not loving the texture. They aren't silk, some sort of poly blend, but all he wants is something to tie to her wrists and ankles. Doesn't have to be strong, just has to suggest magic.

They'll do.

He snagged them and headed back to the line.

* * *

"Halloween's a big deal at your house, isn't it?" the cashier asks.

"Yep. Favorite holiday, and the day after's our wedding anniversary. It's a big deal."

She nods, packing up his purchases. "Hope you have a lot of fun."

"I think we will."

He was in his car before, _the day after's our wedding anniversary_ filtered through his brain enough to realize that the week before Halloween was their anniversary, the day after is their wedding anniversary, and he's got nothing planned, no presents purchased, and no good ideas for what he wants to do. And in that it's October, 3rd, he's only got twenty days to figure it out.

"Shit."

* * *

He gets home and finds Kelly and Abby on the back porch. (In the shade.) It really is a lovely day, mid-seventies, bright blue sky, leaves starting to turn color.

Kelly's getting some tummy time on her blanket, mostly doing what four month olds do, namely laying around trying to get her hands to go where she's aiming them. (Abby had set a few pacifiers in her reach, and she's sort of flailing in their general direction. Apparently picking things up is a learned skill.)

Abby was half sitting, half laying on the chaise, reading, keeping an eye on their daughter, and listening to music.

She looks up at him, smiles, sees the bags and says, "Successful shopping trip then?"

He smiles, little sheepish, little excited, and then sat next to Kelly, picking her up, and settling her in his lap, back against his tummy.

"Look, Kelly. Halloween goodies." He shows her all of her new finery, which didn't impress her much. But Abby seems to approve, she's smiling, and after a few seconds sits down next to them to get a closer look.

* * *

Late afternoon, post-lunch, pre-dinner, Kelly decided it was naptime. Abby seconded that plan, and headed up to grab a bit of a snooze as well. (This was when it occurred to Tim that if he goes heading off on an assignment Abby's on her own with Kelly all night, and while they've got a routine for that, not only did he head off on what should have been his night for getting the 1:00 feed, it's also a lot harder to relax when you're the only one on duty.)

"Sorry," he says, having gotten to that realization when Abby was three quarters of the way up the stairs, heading to nap time.

"Huh?"

"Heading off didn't work that well for you, did it?"

"It was a long night. And for some reason I don't bounce back so fast now," she says with a half-rueful smile.

"Yeah. I know that feeling. It just hit me that I should have asked—"

"You're a cop. I know you're gonna have nights where the job wins. I am, too. Don't have to ask to do your job. And I don't, either."

He nods at that.

"What if it's calling both of us?" he asks, realizing that they didn't have a back-up plan for that, yet.

"Rock, paper, scissors?"

"Hope Heather can stay late?"

"Or that Breena can take another baby for a night?"

He shakes his head at that. Breena's the absolute last person they call, at least, for the next few years. "Wouldn't want to do that. If it's that level of all hands on deck, that means Jimmy'll be working, too. Two babies under two and six months pregnant, alone?"

Abby winces at that, she knows she doesn't want to take that on if she doesn't have to. "Penny or Sarah, then."

"That works."

Kelly made an impatient noise.

"Okay, little girl." Abby pats her bum, continuing her trip up the stairs. "Let's get some sleep."

* * *

The addition of the LabRats to Abby's domain under NCIS brought about several changes, one of which was the removal of the fuzzy lambskin rugs. The weekend before Corwin, Zelaz, and Brandt joined them, Tim took them out of the closet they hid in, lugged them to the car, and back home they and the pillows went.

The futon stayed, it's good to have a place for tired people to crash, but the lambskin rugs are just for them, and the kind of thing they do on the rugs is really unlikely to happen now that three other people work in the lab.

Which means those rugs now live in the attic.

Part of the reason this house was so attractive to them was that upstairs there are four bedrooms. Obviously, one for them, and one for a child, one for guests, and one for, hopefully, another child at some point.

Right now, the room that would (hopefully) belong to another little McGee, is empty. They don't use it for storage much, because Abby's the kind of person who wants things where they belong, and temporary storage makes her itchy. So, even though it's been pointed out to her (by Tim) that this room is a more convenient place to put things than their attic or basement, stuff ends up in the attic or basement because that's going to be its final resting place.

However, as his girls are napping, and he's thinking about tonight's game, the fact that they've got this basically empty room just sitting there is seeming awfully nice.

By the time he hears Gibb's car pull up, he had the lambskin rugs on the floor, scarves tucked under the edges, waiting to be pulled out, L.E.D. candles on the window sills, and his laptop in the corner, "music" picked out.

* * *

Saturday dinner, Tim's manning the grill. Not that it's taking too much manning. This is a pretty simple dinner. Brats on the flames, onions and apples sliced thin and simmering in hard cider. Pretty much it's just a good excuse to sit on the back porch, suck up the early autumn evening, share a drink with Jethro.

He's half-way through his own cider. (Abby brought the first six-pack home last week, and he promptly decided that beer was highly overrated and hard cider was now his low-alcoholic beverage of choice.) But for the moment, he has his pressed to cheek, letting the cold numb his bruises.

"Those any good?" Gibbs asks. He's already finished his first beer.

Tim hands one to Jethro who just stares at it (hard cider with elderflower flavoring) for a second before cracking it open. He looks mildly surprised at how it tastes. "Thought it'd be sweet."

Tim shakes his head. "Nope." Has the flavors of apples and elderflowers without the sugar. He really likes it. "Good?"

Gibbs nods, looking thoughtful, taking another drink. "How's your face?"

"Healing."

Gibbs looks him over more carefully. First time they've really had any time together since before the fight. "Why'd you have Jimmy hit you?"

Tim laughs at that. Nothing gets by Gibbs. "Didn't want it to look too one-sided. No one who wasn't there needs to know how it went."

Gibbs nods. "He doesn't know?"

Tim has no trouble following that in this case he means Tony. "No idea. I don't know how he focuses when he fights. If he can remember how he hit, then he probably knows he didn't get me hard enough to do this. Hasn't said anything about it, other than I looked like shit."

Gibbs looks at Tim critically. Tim rolls up his sleeve and pulls the collar of his t-shirt wide, showing off bruises that're from Tony. "Got some on my right leg, too."

"He taking it easy on you, or getting slow?"

Tim shakes his head. "Wasn't with it enough to know. Both maybe? Jimmy saw the last minute. He might have a better idea." Tim gestures to the bruises on his face. "How do you know?"

"Jimmy's hands are a good inch narrower than Tony's."

Tim nods at that. Gibbs looks at one of the lounge chairs on the porch and then takes the tongs out of Tim's hands. So he goes and sits, relaxing.

"How's your collarbone?"

"Still sore. Aches." He looks at the bruises, and those are still black and swollen, and moves the beer to his shoulder. Though that reminds him of what else he and Gibbs were talking about besides his collar as they texted. "So, who were you chatting with?" Tim asks, wondering again why Gibbs wanted to know how to gchat.

"Rachel."

Tim raises an eyebrow, there's something edgy about how Gibbs says that. "Professional chatting with Rachel?"

Gibbs glares at him, while flipping the brats. "What else?"

"Not saying there is anything else, just asking."

"Why would you be asking?"

"All of the hairs on your body hopped up all at once when I asked and you started to growl, so I figured I hit a nerve."

The look Gibbs gives him says _lay off_ but his words say, "Been talking about Shannon, wanted to talk about this last week."

"So, just giving her a heads up?"

"Yeah."

"Nothing else?" Tim's not feeling like digging too deep, but he doesn't exactly want to lay off, either. He's not sure if Gibbs is touchy because this is counseling or touchy because it's Rachel, and he's curious.

That gets another glare.

"And how is this last week going?"

"You're covered in bruises, Tony's not coming over today because he's spending the weekend soaking in an ice bath and shooting down as many pain killers as he can take, and I told Vance yesterday that January fifteenth was definitely my last day. I'd say between the two of us, we've had better ideas and better weeks."

Tim nods at that. This week wasn't either of their crowning glories. "So, January's really it?"

"Yeah…" Jethro doesn't look at him when he says that, but Tim hears the distress in his voice.

He remembers Gibbs saying that Tony was better after the two of them talked. "And that's why Tony was better than he was?"

"Yep."

"Sorry."

He shakes his head, dismissing it. "Everything ends, right?"

"Yep."

"I had twenty-three years, that's a good long run."

"But not long enough."

"No, not long enough. It'd be… easier… if I knew what came next."

"I'd imagine. That what you're gonna talk to Rachel about?"

"Yeah, some of it at least. Last night, Abby mentioned you were gonna see Wolf today. How'd that go?"

Tim shrugged. "Like talking about yourself for an hour when you don't really want to. Let alone explain why your best friends think you need to talk to someone, with a heaping dose of having to explain where all of this is coming from. But I'm sure you know how that feels." After all, not like Gibbs went to see Rachel without an awfully hard push. "And then getting into some sensitive stuff about your relationship with one of co-worker's that you'd rather not see get put on paper because it might bite him on the ass at some point, but you can't really not talk about it and explain why it is you're sitting there covered in bruises."

Gibbs nods, getting that this is sensitive for not just Tim, but Tony, as well. "Think it helped?"

That gets a shrug, too. "Ask again when I'm pissed. Or when Tony pulls some shit on me, though… I guess right now he's probably earned a bit of it."

"He wasn't thrilled about you passing it off to Fornell without giving him a heads up. I wouldn't have gone for that, either. Wasn't your case to give away." And, as the man who was the Boss for so long, Gibbs knows Tim overstepped, badly. As a Dad, as a man who's been watching this fairly timid guy expand his goals and skills, learn to take charge of anything handed to him, and take care of it all the way through, he's proud.

And he's not sure which one of those Tim needs more right now.

But Tim half-smiles at him, seems to get both. "I know. And I know I'm not winning employee of the decade by doing stuff like that. He did seem pleased about dropping Fornell and Diane on you come Monday."

Gibbs rolls his eyes and lets that go. "You're not an employee anymore."

He shrugs. "Maybe. I'm fairly sure I'd still run major things by, say, Vance before just doing them. Maybe, I've hit the point where I'm not doing the job to make you guys happy anymore. It's more about getting it done and doing it right. It's not about the approval, especially from him."

"But it used to be?"

"I think so."

"Talking to Wolf help you figure that out?"

"Nah. When I was thinking about going completely insane on Tony and why I took it from him for so long."

That gets one of Gibbs' _I understand_ looks. "Ya still gotta work with him."

"Yep. But not for much longer. Jenner's getting really serious with IBM."

Gibbs nods, then thinks about that, thinks about several comments along those lines he's heard from Tim. "How do you know that?"

"While back I asked Leon about what sort of attacks I could do on the private computer accounts of the guys in Cybercrime. You remember that pile of paperwork everyone filled out a month ago, the new NCIS privacy standards, buried in there was permission for NCIS to raid your stuff. So… I hacked his email. I mean, I hacked or am in the process of hacking all of Cybercrime, seeing how good their personal defenses are, but I actually read some of Jenner's emails in addition to just breaking in. They're negotiating starting dates and wages now. Didn't read the details that closely, just wanted an idea of how much longer he was going to be down there."

"Oh." Gibbs was looking vaguely uncomfortable at that. Tim shrugs, he was snooping and he knew it.

They hear the sound of another car pulling into Tim's driveway, followed by the sound of doors opening and closing.

"Smells good," Jimmy says heading toward the grill from the side yard. Must have smelled the food, and headed straight to the back. Molly's riding his shoulders.

"Should be." Gibbs grabs another Angry Orchard from the cooler next to the grill, and tosses it toward Jimmy, who catches it neatly and then puts Molly down. She goes tearing off for the swing set. She's still too small to really play on it, but that has not stopped her from trying. (Tim's thinking that next spring he'll put some sort of small kid play stuff up. Should have a ton of them crawling around his backyard soon enough.)

"Where are the girls?" Jimmy asks as he leans against the deck railing and pops the top on the hard cider. (After taking a moment to read the label for the sugar content.)

"Grabbing a little shut eye right now. Abby'll be up for dinner. Kelly probably will be, too."

"You short a girl tonight?" Gibbs asks while Jimmy casts an approving eye on dinner as he takes a sip of the cider.

"Yeah, Breena's got a viewing."

"Thought her part of it was usually done by the viewing," Gibbs says.

"It is. But Jeannie's not feeling good, so either Breena takes front of the house or Ed does and…" And he doesn't need to finish that sentence, Tim and Gibbs are both well aware of how you might not want Ed Slater in charge of the grieving part of your funeral. He watches Gibbs handle the sausages, keeping them moving on the flames to prevent too much in the way of flare ups, and that got Gibbs and fire together in his head. "So, did Tim tell you about his dragons?"

Gibbs looks over at Jimmy, leaning against the porch railing where he can keep an eye on Molly easy, closes his eyes, opens them slowly, flashes his best _are you kidding me_ look at him, and Jimmy shakes his head. So he turns to Tim, who's relaxing on the chaise, and says, "Dragons?"

Tim smiles. "Dragons. Big, mean, magical warriors. Whole clan of them spread out over a few counties of some sort of ancient magical version of Ireland."

"Uh huh…" Gibbs looks… less than thrilled is probably the best way to put it. He can sense the guys are excited, but, really, dragons?

"That's the next series of books," Tim says, still grinning.

Gibbs sighs at that, and turns the sausages while saying, "Do not tell me that JL McPibbs is going to be the main dragon in this next thing."

Jimmy and Tim laugh pretty hard at that.

"Okay, I have to remember that," Tim says as he calms down. "JL McPibbs may have to be a throw away character of some sort. That's too good of a name to pass up. How about Lorcan McGee, patriarch of the McGee clan?"

Gibbs thinks about that for a moment… "I can live with that. Is Lorcan the main character?"

"This time, no."

"Your own name?" Jimmy asks.

"Not gonna write them as Tim McGee. That'd look kind of dumb."

"And when they find out your real name?" Jimmy asks.

"Come on. Ninety zillion fantasy books out there. And this is not going to be the next Game of Thrones. My mystery readers aren't going to follow me to this series. If it sells as well as most books do, about five thousand people will read it."

Jimmy keeps looking at him, _they're gonna find out, _clear on his face.

"I'll set fire to that bridge when I come to it?"

Jimmy rolls his eyes, takes another sip of his drink, and looks away, keeping his eyes on Molly. "Got a name for me?"

"Daegan McGee? Did some googling when we were stuck in traffic on the way up to Downingtown."

"Daegan?" Jimmy's mostly just testing that name, getting a feel for it but Tim takes his question as _what does it mean_.

"Means black-haired."

Jimmy thought about that for a second, kind of liking it, and then something occurred to him, and he squints at Tim, baffled. "What color hair do you think I have?"

Tim looks at him more carefully. "It's not black?"

"Are you color blind?" Jimmy asks, Gibbs looking between them, appearing to be pretty amused by this.

"I didn't think so."

"It's dark brown."

"Huh." Tim keeps staring at Jimmy's hair. And, well, now that he's looking, yeah, it's not black at all. Dark brown, little bit of gray, less than one percent, but enough so it's visible, but mostly dark brown, some lighter brown highlights. Really, not black at all.

Jimmy's flashing his _so done with you_ back at him. "So, you're not actually getting better at naming things, you're just doing it in a different language?"

"Hey, you aren't Seamus!"

Jimmy squints at that.

"That's the Scots/Irish version of James," Tim explains. He spends another minute looking at Jimmy more carefully. "What the hell color are your eyes? Green? Brown?"

"Hazel. For a writer, you don't pay a lot of attention to detail."

"I can tell you where every mole on every visible inch of Breena, Ziva, and Abby is, and probably spend a paragraph each one their eyes, but for some reason, I haven't felt much need to pay any attention to how _you_ look."

"Good point."

"Bet you don't know what color my eyes are."

Jimmy took another drink of his cider. "Not blue, beyond that, I don't know. But I also don't write stories with you in them."

"Mine are blue. His are green. Tony's are hazel. And this is the dumbest conversation we've ever had. What's Lorcan mean?" Gibbs asks, more interested in seeing what Tim's going to do with this than he wants to admit.

"Little fierce one."

"Really?" Gibbs isn't horrified by that, but he's not loving it, either.

"Come on, you weren't an adult when you got named. If Lorcan didn't describe you as a baby, let alone as a baby dragon…"

"Okay, decent point…"

* * *

When Abby came down she did have Kelly with her, and she was in the little pumpkin costume. Jimmy looks at the two of them, smiles at Kelly, taking her from Abby and giving her a kiss and a little petting, before handing her over to Jethro, taking the tongs from him, (Unwritten but always followed rule at both the McGee and Palmer homes: the person with the baby is not the person standing over the stove/oven/grill, minding the food.) and then says, "So, which one of the two of you went insane on the Halloween costumes."

Tim raises his hand as Abby sits on his lap.

Jimmy shakes his head and smiles again.

Molly comes tearing over. "Kelly!"

Gibbs kneels on the porch so she can get a good view of her cousin. "Remember, very gentle." Molly nods seriously, and leans in to kiss Kelly. Kelly squints at her, looking confused at the noisy thing slobbering on her.

"When your baby sister comes, you're going to have to be gentle with her, too," Jethro says.

Kelly nods at that.

"But you know what?"

"What?"

"When she comes, she's gonna sleep a lot, and your mommy and daddy are going to be really tired, too, so you and me, we're gonna go out and play so everyone else can get naps. Probably take Ducky and Penny, too. That sound good?"

"Good!"

"Okay." Gibbs looks back up to Jimmy. "What's the official count now, ten more weeks?"

"December 14th, supposedly. Of course, Molly was supposed to show up February 1st, so we're not holding out a lot of hope for Anna coming before Christmas."

"What do you think, Molly, want a little baby sister for Christmas?" Abby asks.

Molly shakes her head vehemently. None of them are sure if that's yes or no, (she's shaking side to side and up and down) but they also know that both 'little sister' and 'Christmas' are really nebulous concepts for Molly, so mostly it's just about making sure she's part of the conversation.

Molly keeps looking at Kelly, and finally says, "Pumpkin?"

"Yep, it's a pumpkin costume. For Halloween. Are you and Daddy going trick or treating?"

Molly ponders Uncle Tim's question, while Jimmy nods. "Few houses around ours. Nothing big." He pokes the brats again. "These are done. We eating inside or out?"

Tim shifts Abby onto the chaise and stands up. "I'll get plates and napkins. Too nice to go in."

"There's a salad already made up in the fridge, too," she adds.

"I'll grab that, too."

* * *

Perfect evenings may be vanishingly rare. They may not even exist. But, if you were to ask him, Tim'd tell you that sitting on his back porch, as the sun slips behind the trees in his backyard, eating dinner, enjoying a very good conversation with a group of people he loves is probably about as close as a man can get.

Sure, if everyone had been there it would have been better, but this moment here, Kelly nursing, his arm around Abby, sharing a cider with her, Molly on Jimmy's lap, giving the tiny piece of bratwurst on the fork the big, hairy, eyeball, while Gibbs told them about taking his Kelly trick-or-treating the first time was awfully sweet.

But moments are just moments, and they all end.

Kelly went down for the first of her night sleeps post-nursing. And not much beyond that, Molly was starting to yawn, which meant it was time for her and Jimmy to head home.

And it's not so much that Tim wants to boot Gibbs out of their home, but he is hoping to have as much of the ten to one sleep block for playing with Abby as possible, and knows there's some pre-game prep that needs to happen that'll eat up some of this current seven to ten sleep cycle, so, as dinner's winding down, he's sending off not very subtle see-you-in-the-morning signals to Gibbs.

"Can I leave you two to clear up?" Abby asks, standing up from the table, stretching.

"Sure," Tim replies.

"Good, want to get a shower."

"We're on it." Tim says, watching Gibbs already stacking up plates. Now, normally, if say, Gibbs wasn't the third person here, he'd just sign what he wants to say to Abby, or maybe say it silently. But, of course, that doesn't work with Gibbs.

So, Tim grabs the salad bowl, follows her into the house, plunks it on the kitchen table and follows her to the bottom of the steps. As she rests her hand on the bannister, he lays his hand on hers and says very quietly, while kissing her throat (gently, his lip is still sore) just below her ear, "Get _all cleaned up_, okay?"

She smiles brightly at that, knowing what 'all cleaned up' means. Then says, also quietly, while kissing his lips. "Yes, Lord Gabriel."

He gently pats her tush, and she heads up.

* * *

"I was thinking…" Tim says as he and Gibbs load the dishwasher.

"Yeah, I _noticed_," Gibbs says dryly. "I'm heading home soon."

Tim smirks and begins to scrub out the cast iron pan the apples and onions had been cooking in. "Well, yeah, thinking about that, too. _But_ I know you'd already gotten that message, so that wasn't what I was going to talk to you about."

"Okay."

"Thinking about retiring. What was Franks doing? You told me he had more irons in the fire than anyone guessed. Obviously, he wasn't just lying on the sand sucking down the cervezas. If whatever it was kept him going, maybe…"

"Maybe it'd be good enough for me?" That wasn't a bad idea. What the hell was Franks doing? 'Trust me, Probie, you're _way_ better off not knowin',' was all Franks would say about it. Gibbs knew better than to ask if it was legal, answer like that meant no, it wasn't. But it was Mike, so legal or not, it wasn't immoral.

"Or give you an idea of where to look next."

Gibbs shrugs, that wasn't an insane idea. Could talk to Amira, maybe she'd have a clue… He could head down to Mexico and have a chat with Camilla, she might be able to shed a bit of light on the story. (Or, maybe not go down to Mexico, going to Mexico might not be the best idea he's ever had.)

Could open that box, the box he'd been assuming contained every skeleton in every closet that NCIS or NIS ever built. What Franks had been doing might be in there.

Gibbs nods, not saying much, but definitely thinking.


	20. Lady McGee

After Gibbs leaves, Tim heads upstairs. Abby's still in the shower, water still on full blast, so he takes a moment to head to their toy box, snag the glass dildo she'd used last when they were playing these characters, along with the… blindfold.

It's not exactly a blindfold in the way most people mean that word. Pretty much just taking a scarf or tie or piece of fabric and tying it over someone's eyes is a really inefficient way to go about making it so they can't see.

If the fabric is narrow enough to not hide most of their face, (Which is important when it comes to sex play. It's much easier to tell if your partner likes what you're doing if you can see her face.) then it's also narrow enough to gape at the nose. He's also noticed that most fabrics don't tie well against hair. Either the hair gets caught in the knot, or the fabric slips over the hair when the person wearing the blindfold moves her head, (say if she's lying on her back and squirming, next thing you know the blindfold's round her nose or in her mouth.) and more annoying than that, a blindfold that's large enough to really block sight is a blindfold large enough to block most of the expressions on the person wearing it's face.

So, Tim doesn't much like a traditional blindfold.

But every now and again he likes to set a scene they don't happen to have on hand, and Abby being able to see where they actually are takes away from the idea of the scene he's setting.

So, about a year ago, after showing her the house for the first time, and not being very satisfied with how the blindfold he used then worked, he came across an idea, tested it out with Abby's enthusiastic cooperation, and both of them were pleased.

It's a cheap, little masquerade mask. Probably cost about three bucks. He trimmed it down a bit so it covers less of Abby's face than it would otherwise. (She never blindfolds him, he likes watching way too much for that to be fun for him.) Then he bought some soft, black felt, and lined the inside of the mask, over the eyeholes, with it.

Voila, perfect blindfold. It stays in place when she moves. Her hair doesn't get caught in it. She doesn't have an uncomfortable knot in to deal with. If the elastic ever snaps, he's got three more he can set up in a jiffy.

It's even black.

He snags it, as well as the dildo, and the lube, and heads into their extra room, making sure everything is ready to go.

* * *

He's laying on their bed, googling what sort of things Irish people wore in the 1300s, thinking about costume ideas. (Obviously not for this round, but for the story and future play. For this round, he's debating putting on a kilt or keeping on his jeans.)

Looks mostly like tunics and a cloak. No hose, so that was a plus. No kilts, a minus. Maybe it'll be magical Scotland, not like there aren't already seventy million versions of that out there…

Hell, maybe their part of the universe has denim. Yeah, they'll be cotton-baron dragons of a mythical medieval Alabama… He shakes his head and rolls his eyes. _It's fiction, and more than that, fantasy, you can set it up however you like._

The water stops running, and that pulls his attention away from costumes. A few minutes later, Abby's standing in front of the doorway, toweling off her hair.

"So, besides 'all cleaned up,' do I get any hints for tonight?"

He answers that with a question of his own. "Does Skye have a first name? Is it a title, where she's from, just something that sounds good?"

She sits on the bed and starts to smooth on her moisturizer, recognizing his lack of answer means that nope, no more hints. "Not sure. There's an Isle of Skye, right?"

"I think so. And even if there isn't one on the real world, doesn't mean there can't be one in my world."

"Good point." She thinks while he googles, then says, "Katherine. That's an old-school English name, right?"

"Think so." He looks up from his phone. "Isle of Skye. It's up in northern Scotland, just off the west coast. It's beautiful, green and craggy, no trees, or bushes, but lots of grass, rocks and sky, and water."

"So… I'm thinking Katie got bored of fish and sheep and decided to make her fortune further south."

He nods along with that and leans over to show her the picture on his phone.

"Does anyone live there?" Abby asks, the only thing that looks like human habitation on the pictures he's showing her saw its glory days in the 1500s.

"Says about nine thousand do. Apparently it's a tourist attraction." He holds out his hand. "Want me to get your back?"

"Sure." She squirts a bit of the lotion onto his palm, and he shifts to sitting behind her, rubbing it onto her skin. "Mmmm…"

"Feels good?"

"Always. Wanna go there, someday?" She continues to go through pictures of the Isle of Skye.

He shrugs. In the pictures, it's beautiful. Very green and severe, lochs and moors, sky stretching out forever, the feel of the sea even in the pictures where you can't see it. It doesn't look like anything in the United States. He would like to see it. The tenish hour flight to get there isn't rocking his world. Though commercial air travel is likely quite a bit more comfortable than the troop/equipment transports Gibbs delights in plopping them on for work.

"Find a quiet bit of grass and make love on the moors?" She turns his phone toward him, showing him a shot of very green grass broken by standing stones. Looks, honestly, kind of rough and prickly to him, but that's what picnic blankets are for.

He smiles at that. "As soon as we can drive there, I'm all for it."

She laughs. "So, you want a name. Anything else?"

He thinks as his thumbs press into her shoulders. She purrs quietly at the massage. "You've been keeping me as a pet for a few months; what kind of stuff would Gabe have learned about Skye in that time? Besides her name."

"If you'd been a pet, and really a pet, mostly how to fuck." She looks over her shoulder and grins at him.

He mock pouts. "My charms aren't enough to get you talking while drowsing post-sex?"

"You might be good in bed, but I don't think Lord Gabriel McGee of the Nightfuries is much of a spy. If you were paying attention, you might know a whole lot more about alchemy now. But, really, I think you're her boy toy, how she blows off stress at the end of the day."

He trails his fingers down the back of her neck, making the fine hairs on her skin rise. "I suppose there are a lot of ways to bring honor to the clan."

That gets a laugh. She shifts around, so she's kneeling between his legs, and gently kisses him. "How's the lip feeling?"

"It's sore." Though his tongue darts out to lick her fingertip. "This still works."

"Excellent." Her fingers trace the bruises on his face. "These?"

"Yep, sore, too."

"I know not to touch your shoulder." Her fingers go nowhere near the still black and hot bruise on his right collarbone.

"I'd appreciate that."

"Arms?"

He looks at the mottled yellow, purple, and green. As a lefty, he defends right, meaning that arm took a lot of Tony's hits. "Not too bad. Don't grab hard."

"Will I be able to grab?"

"You might be." Another smile.

"So mysterious… Legs?" He's still wearing his jeans. And while it's true that he's as likely to hit with fist or foot, Tony's a straight boxer, so his legs were fine.

"Legs and hips are fine."

"Good." She smiles while stroking his calves. "Here?" Her hands slide up the insides of his legs to rest on his crotch.

He knows she's playing. 'Wake you up nicely' meant he woke up with his dick in her mouth, so she already knows that bit of him is more than fine.

"Oh, you'll be touching there. A lot." He winks and presses his hands into hers.

Kelly's going to wake up soon, so he doesn't want to get too deep into playing, yet. Right now is just about being with each other, setting a mood, and enjoying these little, everyday intimacies. Tim takes the bottle of moisturizer, and adds another squirt to his hand, then taps the back of his knuckles lightly against her knee. She changes position again, her leg over his, and he strokes the lotion over her right leg as she did her left.

"This stuff new?" he asks, hands smoothing up her leg. "Smells different."

"Yep. You like it?"

"Not sure. It's not bad. Just not that 'you' scent."

"Turns out my last brand started testing on animals so they could sell their stuff in China, so I ditched them."

He nods at that, rubbing her thigh gently, making sure all the lotion absorbs evenly. She let him keep it up for a minute or two longer than necessary, then takes his hand away from her leg and kisses it. "Don't want to get me too revved up before I've got to feed Kelly."

"Good point." He glances at the clock. Any minute now, Kelly would wake up, and once she'd eaten they could get to really playing.

Abby stands up, slipping on one of her nursing bras. "So, costume for this?"

"Hmmm…" He ponders happily. "Were you planning on putting anything else on?"

"Robe or button down. Little too cool for naked."

"Go for the robe then."

She nods, reaching for it, and as she did, they heard the first tiny wail of their daughter looking for second dinner. Abby checks the clock. "That's the fourth night in a row that she's hit 10:04. How can she possibly be that accurate?"

He shrugs.

"Back in a bit."

He grins. "See you then, Lady Skye."

* * *

Second dinner usually clocks in at half an hour. He uses that half hour to make sure he's got his scene set. Everything looks in place. He's standing in the spare room, checking around, thinking about his own costume.

_Jeans or kilt… _

_You're a captive sex slave breaking free. Did she let you have clothing? You didn't in the first game. The keep's fallen, everything is in chaos, you're breaking out and snagging her to go with you. Did you go hunting for clothing before grabbing her or are you just grabbing her and leaving?_ He tosses off his jeans. _No way you'd take the time to go scrounge up some pants. You're grabbing her before someone else does, and getting the hell out of there._

He's naked; the room's set. Time to get in place for her. He picks up the blindfold.

Kelly's room will be dim. The night light gives just enough illumination to make sure all poop comes off during the pre-feed diaper change, and that's it. He flicks on the hall light, opens the bathroom door, turns on that light as well. He wants it bright out here, so for a few seconds she won't be able to see much.

He waits, standing, pressed against the wall, right next to Kelly's door. If this goes the way he hopes it does, she'll shut the door, he'll leap over, snag her, get the blindfold on, hoist her over his shoulder, and into the not so empty, empty room they'll go.

That's the plan at least.

* * *

He can hear her humming, the slight click of the rocking chair settling back into place as she gets up. "Sleep well, baby girl."

One step, two, three, her hand hits the doorknob.

She opens the door, blinking hard at the bright light, and he pulls her to him, fast, his hand over her mouth. "Quiet."

Abby nods.

"Your keep's fallen. Time to get you out of here, Lady Skye."

"Before I'm taken as a prize?" she whispers.

"Before you're taken as _someone else's_ prize."

"And how do you suggest we get out? You're clearly wounded, unarmed, and naked."

"I fought my way to you like this, and I'll get us out." He flashes her a cocky smile. Tim slips the blindfold over her eyes, hoists her over his left shoulder, and murmuring something he hopes sounds vaguely magick-y, he carries her into the spare room.

He'd set the room carefully. A few of the LED candles are glowing, providing him with enough light to see. He'd turned the "music" on while Abby nursed; it's the sound of waves and wind. Turning the ceiling fan on means they have a bit of a breeze. Dragging the humidifier up from the basement and running it while she was nursing means the room is slightly damp.

It feels and sounds, he hopes, a lot like they are on the ocean.

He puts her down, gently, on the fuzzy rugs. "I wouldn't stray far, Lady Skye, the water's rough, and twenty feet below us."

"I'm a good swimmer," she says, still sitting, reaching around her, feeling what's near.

"Make sure you jump far then, the rocks below us are rougher, yet."

"And will I get my vision back?"

"Eventually. You don't need it right now."

"Why? Keeping me from running off?"

"Something like that," he says as she feels around, finding the edges of the rug. "The cliff we're on only extends a few feet beyond the rugs."

"How did we get here?"

"Magic."

She stops feeling around and looks at him, exasperation on her face. "This whole time, you've been able to just leave whenever you wanted?"

"Yes." He kneels, straddling her legs, and gently strokes her lips with his fingers. "But being your amusement of choice made for a very pleasant situation. Didn't feel any need to leave until I could let my men know where I was."

She nods, starting to put the pieces together. "And did my keep fall to your men?"

"Yes. Daegan has it now. If it's any consolation, I'm sure you'll get back to it."

"You're just going to let me go?"

"That wasn't how I was envisioning this working." He sits back on his heels, next to her, slipping one of the scarves out from under the rugs, looping it over her big toe, crossing it over and over her foot, and tying it gently at her ankle. He kisses the knot and once again said something low and nonsense, magic words to work the spell. "On the off chance you can't actually swim, this will make sure you don't fall."

"And how did you envision this working?" she asks, foot still between his hands, her hands braced against the rugs, leaning back against them, robe slipping off her left shoulder.

"Did you know I have six brothers?"

"You hadn't mentioned that."

He shrugs, gently stroking her ankle, tips of his fingers skittering between the lines of the scarf. "Well, we didn't do a lot of talking. They're envious of my position as firstborn and covetous of my lands. I would find it… convenient… to have a well-fortified keep they didn't grow up in, finding all the nooks and hidden passages. A keep staffed with men who aren't loyal to my family might be nice, too. Likewise, that keep of yours is on prime land, and it's much easier to defend lands when the people attacking them do not know every river and glen."

"Uh huh." She doesn't look particularly impressed by that, understanding where he's going with this. She changes the subject. "What is this place?"

"Mine. This is my one holding that I do not have to defend from them. They see no use to it. First of seven boys, only one with a lick of magic to him. For them, this is just a cold lump of rock in the middle of the ocean. But for me… All magic is sea, sky, earth, and fire, and here, we sit on earth that was once fire, that burned until it hit the sea, cooled, became this shelf of rock, here sea beats below us, and sky dances above. Here we are fire made earth, held between sea and sky. Here is perfect."

Abby moves the edge of the rug and touches the carpet below, as if to touch the rock. "Poetic. This is your power source?"

"One of them. But, yes, this is an especially fine node. Easy to pull off of, easy to work with. I'm not, by a long margin, the first mage called to this rock, and I won't be the last. But while my heart beats, it's mine."

"Why bring me here?"

He smiles, but she can't see that. So he reaches for her hand, and places it on his chest, over his heart. Her other hand lay on the carpet below the rugs, touching what would have been bare rock. "Bringing my heart to my heart."

She tilts her head, teasing, emotional armor in place, but her voice is soft as she asks, "Are you really that fond of me, Dragon Knight?"

"I think I could become so, and I'd like that chance. I am that fond of your lands, and it's an awfully nice keep, very comfortable, hot and cold running sex available at all hours. I like it there." He smiles brightly, keeping the lightness in his voice, so she can hear it.

She smirks at that, starting to tug her hand away, but he holds her wrist firm over his heart.

"Do you think I'm that fond of you?" she asks him.

He keeps hold of her hand, lifting her wrist to his lips, kissing gently, and then biting softly, scraping his teeth over the sensitive skin where her pulse thrums. He smiles at her again. "We'll find out."

"You'll try."

"Unlike you, Lady Skye, I've got more than thick walls to keep a person near." Abby looks too amused to be properly Lady Skye, but, lack of proper indignation aside, he's very pleased to see Abby's having a good time with this. He kisses her wrist again, then licks gently up the inside of her forearm, speaking against her skin, letting the breath of his words tickle damp flesh.

"I bind you, Katie of Skye," her eyes go wide as he says that. Apparently that isn't what Abby or Skye expected him to do.

"I bind your flesh to mine." He snags another of the scarves, one that already had a small loop tied into the end, slipping it over her first finger.

"I bind you Katie of Skye, here, where earth meets air." He wraps the scarf over her hand and wrist, looping it further up her arm as his lips slip over each new word.

"I bind you, here, where sea kisses earth." He kisses the crook of her elbow with that.

"I bind you, here, where fire met water.

"I bind you, here, in the shadow of where fire leaps to air.

"I bind you, here, my woman" a kiss to her wrist, "to my magic" a kiss to her palm, "to my name." One last kiss to her lips.

He finishes tying the knot onto her arm, and then shifts his hold to her other arm, where the knot tattoo is. "I bind you, Katie of Skye, brand you with my mark, take you as my woman.

"I bind you, Katie McGee, from this day 'til our spirits return to the heavens that gave us birth.

"I bind you."

Abby's grinning widely at that, and he has no problem feeling her break character as she says, "I like that."

"Really?" That was quite a bit more one-sided than he's ever taken his playing before. After all, Skye, in character, probably wouldn't have been thrilled with the whole magically overpowered, taken captive, and married by force thing. And though he liked saying it, was in it, with the character in the moment, there is a part of him feeling a bit wary going that far. He thinks she knew he'd need a bit more reassurance to take this that far, and he appreciates getting it.

"Oh yeah!" She's nodding at him. "I think most girls like the idea of being swooped up, taken, and claimed, by the right guy. You know, as a game… Different if it's real. But, sometimes it's nice to be reminded of exactly how much bigger and stronger you are. Sometimes, it's fun to be… swept off your feet, literally."

He slips off her blindfold, (he doesn't like having a real conversation when he can't see Abby's eyes) and she quickly looks around, appreciating what he's done to set this.

"Nice."

"Thanks."

"Why are there two kitchen chairs up here?" There's a chair on either side of the rugs.

He smiles happily at her, naughty gleam in his eyes. "That binding might get a whole lot more literal. Just don't tug hard; they won't hold for much."

She's still grinning at this, and looks him in the eye and says, "Sometimes, an edge of danger is fun. Sometimes, the safeword isn't just about making sure you've got a way out, sometimes it's about allowing the illusion of lack of consent…"

That's way further than they've ever taken his Doming. He knows he's not comfortable going that far. She's never said no in a game, but he's sure, even though that's not her safeword, that it'll stop him dead.

Edge of danger, bigger, and stronger, and just taking what you want… That's also a different flavor than how they usually play. Even when he is in charge, he'll tell her what he wants, have her do it for him, but she always has the control of not following orders. He's never just _taken_ what he wants. There's a huge chasm between saying, 'Pull it out and suck' and actually grabbing a woman by the head and forcing her to do it.

He's looking at her, not quite sure how to even put what's bouncing around in his mind into words, but she's nodding at him, reassuring.

"Play with me. Trust me, I'll like it. And Skye's not from around now, she's used to a world where men decide what they want and then grab it."

"But, does she like it?"

"She does if the right guy's doing it."

"Is Gabe the right guy?"

"I have a feeling that's the main plot of book one."

"You think there's more than one book here?"

"Oh yes." She grins up at him, kisses just below his chin, where his skin is unbruised, and then slips the blindfold back over her eyes.

Tim takes a moment to shift the storyline in his head a bit, embracing a more 'taking' less 'telling' perspective. Then says, "It's not nice to tease a man."

He leans over her, snagging another scarf, whispering in her ear, "Not nice to show him something he wants, day after day, letting him see, but not touch." He bites her earlobe, and then ties her right wrist (loosely) to the leg of the chair.

"And what, poor little Knight, did you want so badly that you couldn't have?" She tugs the binding as a token complaint against being tied, but Abby's being careful not to yank too hard.

His hands stroke over her hips, unknotting the tie on her robe, pushing it off her body and up and over her arm, so it pools in a soft silk puddle up by her right hand.

"Hands and knees, Lady McGee, on your hands and knees."

Abby's wriggling in a very pleased sort of way. Completely out of character for Skye, but well, he's a guy, and an ass guy at that, and her wriggling a soft, plump ass at him in a very _come and get it_ manner hits him all sorts of all right.

He quickly ties her left ankle to the other chair, spreading her legs apart, and lays a line of kisses down her spine, then settles, kneeling between her legs, looking.

"Best view in the world," he says, hands cupping her rear, stroking gently over her skin, staying to the sides, nearer her hips than her pussy.

"Not my face?" she asks, back into Skye, looking (well, not looking, she's got the blindfold on, but turning her face to him) over her shoulder.

He pats her cheek gently. "Get to see your pretty face all the time. This treasure's usually hiding under your skirts. Shame to see it covered." He gently licks the base of her cross tattoo. "Maybe I'll do that… Take you to my home, keep you bent over all day and night, on display for my pleasure? You kept me ninety-seven days. Shall I keep you bent over for me ninety-seven days?"

"Open to your every whim?"

He growls gently at that. Many, many whims flashing through his mind. "You're teasing again."

"Maybe I like teasing. Besides, what sort of teasing is this? 'Get to see but didn't touch.' You touched me all over."

"No, Lady McGee, I didn't. You let me touch here." His hands slid down her hips and legs. "And here" he drags them up the backs of her legs, over her ass, and up her back. "Of course here." He cups her breasts gently. "And here." His fingers trail down her throat and over her arms.

He kisses her pussy lightly, just brushing his lips against hers. "Loved touching there." He slips his tongue between her lips, lapping gently at her, taking the time to savor her taste and tease her clit, working her until she's rocking against him, soft, breathy moans matching the cadence of the waves in the recording. When he felt her start to tighten, when her voice got higher and her legs began to just barely quiver, he slid further up, over her perineum, and an inch further, circling her anus then lightly flicking his tongue against it.

She jerks at that touch, gasping, sounding surprised, drawing in a little, and he's sure that's her being Skye, because he knows Abby likes that just fine and having been told to get all clean, was certainly expecting something like that to happen.

"But you didn't let me touch here." He licks his finger, making sure it's wet and slick, and then slides it over her, circling the delicate skin. "You teased, and you let me imagine, you told me how good it'd be, let me see," he grabs the glass dildo and trails it over her, "that, but you didn't let me touch." He bites the curve of her buttock, where it met her thigh, while continuing to circle her with his finger.

"No more teasing, Lady McGee, time to deliver on your promises."

She inhales fast and hard, shifting away from him as much as she can without pulling too far on the ties and tipping over the chairs.

He strokes the dildo up the insides of her legs, teasing closer and closer toward her pussy, but not touching. "No sarcastic quip for me? No more teasing?"

She shakes her head. "Not about that."

He licks gently over her, tongue trailing in a wet, silky promise. She tightens against him, squirms, partially pulling away, partially pushing back, getting more friction, and sighs. He licks again, and again, nothing demanding, no penetration, just kissing her properly, making sure everything was warm and wet, quivering in anticipation. When he pulls back he says, "Do you not like it?"

"I like what you're doing. I've… never…" She blushes prettily, and Tim's not sure if Abby's so into Skye right now she can't find the edges between them, or she's just that good of an actress. Either way, he's really liking it.

"Never?" That got another long, wet lick, and this time he points his tongue, very gently starting to press forward, wriggling against her. When she presses back against him, he stops. "Tease me like that, and you've never…"

"No."

He bites her gently again, growling, feeling a surge of lust-filled possessiveness through him. "Nothing a man likes better than virgin territory."

"That's what I'm afraid of," she says very quietly.

"Afraid I'd like it?" he asks, gently, concerned.

"Afraid of being marked by you."

That got a smirk, and another kiss, his fingers dancing over the lip print on her throat and the cuff tattoo on her arm. "Little late for that, Lady _McGee._ You're mine. Body, lands, soul. Mine." He leans up, so that his chest covers her back and his lips are near her ear. "See me." He whispers against her ear, and slips the blindfold off. She turns her face to him, and he kisses her lips. "I want you to see me do it. I want you to know it's my body. No closing your eyes, no pretending. My body, in yours. My cock, making you come."

"You're awfully sure about that."

"Ninety-seven days. That's how long you held me. Eighty-nine of them you came to me. Came for my tongue, my cock, my fingers, my body. You slept in my arms and screamed my name. I know you had other men you kept as toys, but you came back, over and over, for me."

"Maybe they were just lame fucks," she says with a smile, seeming more in control.

"Maybe. But you know I'm not." He unbinds her hand and ankle. "When I sink into you, I want you to see it. I want you watching. First man to take your ass'll be me, and I want to make sure you know it." He picks her up again and carries her into their bedroom, dropping her on the bed and quickly adjusting the mirrors in their room.

A second later, he's back again, this time with the dildo and lube. He takes a few seconds to rearrange the pillows, wants something to help keep him easily propped up, then he reclines against them, shoulders and chest off the bed, rest of him lying down.

"Hands and knees again. Over me. Want you sucking me while I play with you."

Abby nods, settling into place over him. He scoots them (and the pillows) over a few inches. "Can you see everything?"

"Yes." It's not an easy angle to get a good view of, but lots of mirrors means he can bounce the view off of one to another, so she can see him as he touches her.

"Good." He licks her slow and steady. Then notices she's not doing much licking of her own, and pushes his cock toward her lips. A second later, when she sucks him in in one long pull, he groans. "Perfect, just like that. Keep me happy, while I get you ready."

One last lick, wet and slick and lavish, lingering on her skin, making her arch against him, he'd probably like to do more, but once penetration gets involved he stops being able to kiss the rest of her, and he's got a damn good way of helping distract from the uncomfortable part of stretching out, one he needs a clean tongue for.

He reaches around, finding the lube by feel, and tossing it to her. "Slick up my fingers."

She does, using lots of lube. This is one time when extra friction isn't a good thing. He pulls her hips a bit higher up, begins to stroke her clit with his tongue, while his fingers begin to gently massage around her anus. He takes his time, slow, easy, lots of long strokes with the pads of his fingers to relax the muscles, help get everything loose and happy.

She's rocking against him, humming blissfully against his dick, mouth wet and supple on him, making it difficult to concentrate on what he's supposed to be doing, but it's the best kind of distraction.

He starts to ease his first finger in, slow, steady pressure, while he sucks on her clit, flicking it with his tongue. She's moaning against him, thrilling him with the sounds of her pleasure and the feel of it on his dick.

Once his finger's sunk in he pulls back for a second to say, "God, that's beautiful. So, hot and tight. Still watching?"

He feels her nod and starts on finger two. Slow, gentle pressure, easy stretching, making sure her body has time to adjust. Making sure to keep her just on the edge of getting off as he adds each new finger. He's reading her responses carefully, feeling the building tension in her body, the almost-there clench of her ass around his two fingers as his tongue speeds up, getting her closer and closer. He wants to feel her twitching around him as he slips the third finger in, wants to hear her coming on him.

It's there, that breathy, gasping, high-pitched moan that lets him know it's time. He speeds his tongue and slips the third finger in, fast, knowing by that point she's so turned on the burn'll feel good. And it does, or seems to, at least, her legs twitch and her body spasms around him as the third finger slides home.

He waits until she's not twitching anymore, until her breathing calms back down. She's resting against him, not sucking anymore, just lightly licking his thigh. "Still think my confidence is unfounded."

"No."

He wriggles his fingers. "Still feel good?"

"Yes."

He starts to pump them in and out, slowly. She moans again. He rises his hips toward her again. "That wasn't nearly muffled enough."

She giggles and takes him back into her mouth. He moans, then goes back to licking her, rolling her clit with his tongue in fast circles as his finger set a slow steady glide. When her mouth work starts to get sloppy, when she lets him slip out and doesn't seem to be paying much attention at all to his dick, that's his cue to move from fingers to the dildo.

He was about to press the dildo in when an idea occurs to him. An idea they haven't played with before. He's not even entirely sure how the mechanics of it would work, but he reaches back, just able to get the drawer on the nightstand open, grabs one of the condoms, and quickly covers the dildo.

Abby had been watching and is looking at him curiously. They're the only ones that use their toys, not like they need extra protection. He adds more lube to the condom and then pushes forward with one long, smooth thrust, watching her shudder and moan.

"Like it?"

"Yeah."

"How's it feel?"

"Full—" he slides it out a little and she moans again. "Hard. Unh… Slick…" She rocks back onto it, groaning again, head dropping to his thigh.

He pulls her head up by her hair. (Gently, mostly just nudging her up.) "Keep watching. Want you to see every second of this."

He bends low, licking her clit while sliding the dildo in and out, listening to each hitched breath and half moaned sigh. Again he licked until her body was tight, quivering on the edge of climax, and again he stopped.

"Fuck you, Gabe, do not leave me like this," she spit at him as he pulls back, lips, chin, and neck shiny with her juices.

"Patience, Katie. I've always gotten you there before. Tonight's not gonna be any different, love."

"Damn well better."

"Up, off of me." He sits back on the bed, still making sure the mirrors are keeping everything in easy view. He takes her hands and gets her straddling him, so she was over his cock, facing the mirrors, then holds her hips so she couldn't sink down. "Stay. Watch." He coats his cock with lube, generously, pumping his shaft with his hands as her eyes follow every motion.

Then with slick fingers, he got a hold of the dildo, slid it out, stripping off the condom, and pulled her onto him, sinking balls deep into her pussy, hissing at the feel of it. "Fuck, Katie, you feel so good." He rocks into her, feeling her rise and fall against him, and then on yet another upstroke he stopped her, pulled out, and shifted his dick back.

"Watch. Watch my cock slip into you. Watch me fuck that glorious tight little ass of yours."

She slowly lowers herself, and they both watch her body spread around him, watch as his slick flesh was enveloped by hers.

Her eyes grow heavy, and he knows they usually close when she's feeling intense pleasure. "Keep them open, Abby, want you to see me fuck you."

"Yes" slurs into a deep groan as she settles onto him.

He's kissing her shoulder and neck, reveling in the soft, tight, hot, so incredibly hot, feel of her body on his.

"Want you to touch yourself. No getting off until I say you can, but I want to see your fingers on your clit."

"Yes." She does, circling slowly, and he feels her muscles tighten against him.

His teeth worry her shoulder, nipping along the skin, as he rocks gently in and out. Can't move too much, but right now he's just adding a little friction, enjoying how this feels, her body so tight and slippery on his.

Finally he remembers he's still got the dildo in hand, and why he put a condom on it in the first place.

"Suck it. Get it good and wet." Not that it really needs it. She's so wet there's a puddle on the bed under them, but he likes to watch. And like always her perfect mouth wrapping around something dick shaped and slurping ramps him up a few more notches.

She stops licking, eyes glinting at him, knowing where this is going to go.

"Never tried this before."

"Didn't think you had. Okay?" They're both fully out of character, but it doesn't matter.

"Oh yeah. Go slow."

"I will. Keep rubbing yourself. Want you so close you're begging for it." He licks her earlobe as he says, "But no coming. Not until I say you can."

Her fingers speed up, faster pace, not flying over her skin, but moving quickly, firmly. He keeps rocking against her, building up his own speed, and then begins to rub the head of the dildo against her. Not slipping in, not yet. Just playing it over her lips, nudging between them, letting her use the head like a finger, rubbing it over her clit, then sliding back again to trail lightly over her pussy lips.

She starts rising and falling on him, fingers moving a bit faster, and she might not be begging for it, but he knows he's not going to be able to hold on all the much longer, so Abby flushed red and whimpering is close enough. He shifts his hold on the dildo, moving it a fraction of an inch, gently parting her lips with it, and holding it in place, letting her sink down on it.

She does, slowly, hissing, body tight, low, deep groan echoing from her lips. "Oh God!"

He agrees with that. 'Oh God!' is right. It feels amazing. He didn't think it'd feel that different to him, but it's more pressure, more tight, more everything, and he really likes it.

He stops rocking, knowing he can keep his hands moving or his hips, but not both, not this far gone. Abby's slipping up and down on him, fast, blowing his mind. He starts to ease the dildo up and down, different speed than her hips, and that… that's her cursing with every breath, a long half-gasped litany of delicious profanity, and him… he's got no idea, he knows he's making noise because _that,_ up-down, her body at one speed and the dildo at another, and he can feel it sliding up and down against him, but not exactly, because he's feeling it through her. It's like her, all around, but her more, where the ridge of glass pushes into her, and it's pressure and tight and friction and everything moving at once and just, _holy fucking mother of god_ gold-red-white pulsing, burning, tingling pleasure through his whole body, every nerve sizzling with it, shouting, probably as loud as he can, her body clenching and spasming and rippling and everything wet and limp and lightly twitching, collapsed on each other, so high neither of them is in any danger of coming down anytime soon.

_Waaaa…_

Or, coming down right now. _Waaaa… _Crying baby is the proverbial wet blanket tossed on a good post orgasmic glow.

Abby's not moving at all. Tim really doesn't want to move, either. Really. Every limb of his body feels like it's made of gently twitching, very happy, cement. But not only is it his night, he also missed the last two, so really, he needs to get up and get Kelly back down again. He inches away from Abby, very much regretting not getting to nestle in close and let his body calm back down, basking in the tight gentle heat of hers as he went soft.

He's quietly muttering to himself about Kelly picking an extraordinarily inconvenient time to stop sleeping through everything, as he wipes up a bit, when he notices the clock, 1:04. Or she's just woken up at her usual time, and they played a bit too long.

He stumbles into her room. "I'm here."

The appearance of a parent (late) but no food produces what could best be called an irate look. But in a few minutes, when she's cleaned up, laying against his chest, slurping away on her bottle, she's mollified. And, by the time she's mollified, Abby's gotten cleaned up, too, and come in, sitting on the floor, head on his knee, dozing against him.

Eventually Kelly finishes eating. Eventually they go back to bed. And eventually he curls up behind her, lip pressed (very gently) to her shoulder, inhaling the post-sex scent of her skin, and falls into a deep, content sleep.

* * *

For those of you who are curious, yes, I have started writing Gabe and Skye's adventures. (I'm actually a fantasy author. Even got some titles on Amazon.) Not sure if they'll be a full novel, a series of short stories, or a full on epic, either way, they'll eventually get to my blog, and, sooner or later, publication on Amazon and the like.


	21. A New Path

A/N: Quick reminder Anonymous Was A Woman happened after Shards went off the cannon. More at the end.

* * *

Gibbs thought about it the whole ride home, what had Franks been up to?

Whatever it was, he wasn't doing it when Gibbs stayed with him that one summer. Or, if he was doing it, whatever it was didn't involve doing anything for four months at a time.

But Gibbs didn't think he was doing, whatever it was, back then.

But the last few years… especially after the Doc said it was cancer… he was doing something. Wouldn't say what. And, thinking about it, Gibbs doesn't know why he thought Franks was up to something. There were no obvious tells. Mike wasn't asking him for favors or anything. But… there was something.

He knew it in his gut.

Or maybe he just knew Mike so well that he knew there had to be more to it than laying on the beach drunk all day long. Even Mike couldn't do that for a decade at a time.

So, what was he doing?

* * *

The box. (technically, boxes) Gibbs had had it for years. All of Franks' "insurance policies." Everything he ever knew about anyone that he could use for leverage.

Gibbs built the false wall behind his bookshelf, stuck the collection of stuff Franks had given him in it, and left it there. And though he added to it as Mike gave him more and more stuff, he never opened any of it.

Because, unlike Franks, he was never so much of a loose cannon that he needed to blackmail people into letting him keep doing the job. Never bent the rules so far that he'd have to keep a loaded gun to make sure that no one would smack him for it.

Well, that's not true.

Unlike Mike, he never felt like he deserved to wiggle out of getting smacked for the rules he'd bent or broken.

So, there was a sense of… trepidation as he opened the box. A sense of peeking behind curtains he never meant to touch.

On the upside, if it can be called an upside, by now most of the things he was looking at were moot. The cases were over, the people involved dead. The entire first box was filled with dead men on dead cases. Things that happened not just before his time, but in several cases, ended before his time as well.

The second box caught up to when he began at NIS. Not exactly current events, but at people he knew, cases he heard of, some he'd been on as a Probie. He refused to look into the file marked "Leon Vance," though he found the quote marks around Leon's name ominous.

And, it was true that he felt dirty by reading through them. These weren't just the skeletons in the closets; these files told the tales of the monsters that put those skeletons there. All 'greater good' arguments aside, there was some awfully shoddy work in these files and a boat load of men who deserved to sleep poorly because of it.

Worse than that, there were signs that the people he knew, respected, men who helped him to anchor himself when he was lost after Shannon and Kelly, were full of shit when it came to doing the job and doing it right.

That was probably part of not opening Leon's file. He doesn't want to know if Leon's full of shit, too. Doesn't want to know how many bodies Leon had to bury to get to where he is.

But for most of these files, and the men represented by them, they've passed to eternal sleep. And for almost all of the others, retirement has come and taken them off every case, forever.

Gibbs burnt the dead files without thinking twice. Nothing left to do with them. The ones where any of the agents were still alive, he kept, one day those cases may open again.

He looked at Leon's one last time, and tossed it on the fire, as well. Whatever was in there, he didn't need to know. Whoever Leon was, the man he is now will own up and act right if it ever comes back at him. Gibbs trusted that. Gibbs needed to trust that.

In the last box, the one Franks gave him right before he died, there are clues to something different. There are files on Coast Guard employees, on Federales and Mounties, on members of the TSA and the FAA, ICE, there are a bunch from the Border patrol, both on the Mexican and Canadian sides, there are files on high ranking officials at the Miami, Los Angeles, Philadelphia airports, and there are dossiers on people in different US Embassies.

These were all, as much as they can be, Frank's has been dead since '11, up to date. These were recent files on men still doing the job. These were also, unlike the others, which were mostly case files highlighting shoddy or flat out illegal work, straight up blackmail, lists of mistresses, gambling debts, embarrassing past activities, that sort of thing.

They're clues, but beyond the fact that everyone Franks had a file on was involved in some sort of travel or border thing… Gibbs wasn't seeing it.

"God, Mike, what the hell were you doing?"

He looked at the files in front of him again. FAA, Coast Guard, TSA, Border Patrol, ICE, airport officials…

"Smuggling?"

He looks around for a moment, willing Mike's ghost to pop up and tell him, but he doesn't. The Embassies are all in the middle east… Opium? If it meant making sure that Leyla and Amira never wanted for anything… If the payout was big, and he was dying already… Yeah, he'd do it in a heartbeat.

"Mike…"

_Not drugs. Keep thinkin', Probie, you'll figure it out. _

He doesn't see Mike, but the voice is clear.

"Thinking about what?"

_Left you all the clues you need. Practically spelled it out. Just keep thinkin', you'll get there._

* * *

Thinking about it through church didn't help. The only answer he can think of, drugs, doesn't make any sense.

Actually, no, it makes perfect sense.

He can see what Mike's got set up is some sort of smuggling ring. With Mike's background in law enforcement and the military he'd have had good connections for drugs or guns.

But… he wouldn't leave that lying around for Gibbs. Mike knew there was no way he'd touch anything like that, and Mike wouldn't have given him all of this if he didn't expect him to eventually pick it up and use it.

So, it can't be drugs. Just. No. Never. Wouldn't matter how bad off their family was, how much they were hurting for cash. He'd hire out for wet work before running drugs.

Guns… Not like he couldn't think of people he wouldn't mind getting their hands on some good weapons. He was sure Franks felt the same way… (Though, given what he can see, this looked like Mike was moving something into the USA, and Gibbs really hoped he wasn't arming groups inside the US.) But… TSA? Airport officials? Immigration? Passport officials at different consulates? Guns are big, heavy, take up a lot of space. That's not who you call in for running guns.

It's who you call in to get a cover ID for someone who was running drugs…

Sort of… But… No, there isn't a document guy in the list of files Mike had. There's a list of people who you ask to turn a blind eye. Some you might ask for help. But you don't go to the US Consulate and bribe the Ambassador in an effort to get fake papers. You do that to get real ones, in a hurry.

He was distracted at Sunday dinner, still thinking through the problem, wondering. That got some minor ribbing from various Slaters, but in that he wasn't paying attention, it didn't much matter.

He's tempted to skip Bootcamp. He knows Tim's not fighting, and he can't, either, not really, and with just Ziva and Jimmy there, they might decide he needs to do some of that god-awful stretching stuff they're so fond of in an effort to get his knee back to functional.

The PT guy already has him doing a shit ton of it, and he hates it because it hurts like a son of a bitch and doesn't seem to be helping much. And with only Jimmy and Ziva able to fight, they'll probably do a few rounds and then make him stretch with them while Jimmy explains, at length, about how all of him needs to be loose and supple if he's going to really get back to fighting prime. (Sometimes having a doctor for one of your kids is highly overrated.) Then Ziva will explain how this sort of conditioning was part of her training and how it helps with fine muscle control or some other thing… (Mossad-trained former assassin isn't necessarily much better.) And… next thing he knows, they're trying to see if they can turn him into a pretzel while his hamstrings and low back scream in pain because there are some positions that guys in their fifties just shouldn't try to get into.

Ed Slater sidling over, looking at Tim, and saying, "So, really, what happened to him?" (Official story was that it's classified.) pulled him back to the real world.

"Can't tell you." Gibbs said, remembering that stretching may hurt like hell, but it was a good excuse to head off before everyone settled in to watch the game (National V. Yankees) and he ended up committed to being here for the rest of the night.

"The tech guy gets into fist fights?"

He stared at Ed, perplexed that they're still having a version of this conversation. "Tim's a field agent. He doesn't spend his days glued to a desk. His job is just as dangerous as mine."

Ed shook his head.

"What?"

"Just, hard to believe."

"Other men have thought that, too. They're dead."

That got a quick, shocked laugh out of Ed. "How about the guy who did that to him? He dead?"

"Like he's been saying, classified."

Ed nodded and glanced at the clock. "You and Jimmy heading off?"

Gibbs responded with a nod as well. Time to go.

* * *

"You're being awfully quiet," Jimmy said to him as they headed toward the Navy Yard.

Gibbs shrugged, putting his key into the ignition.

"Even for you, you're being quiet, what's up?"

Gibbs turned off the radio and told Jimmy about Tim's suggestion, and what he'd found, what he was puzzling over. He didn't tell him about the other part that was also keeping him quiet. Namely, that Ed's 'how about the guy who did that to him?' question got him thinking about Tony.

Who, of everyone he knew, could look through Franks' papers and help him figure it out.

But he didn't much want to talk to Tony right now.

He was sulking. He knew he was sulking. It was not Tony's fault that he was getting old. Not Tony's fault that he'll take over when Gibbs leaves. And it was not Tony's fault that he was not doing a good job of gracefully slipping into whatever comes next and handing the reins over.

None of that was Tony's fault.

But that didn't mean he wanted to spend an afternoon or two sitting in his living room, next to Tony, drinking a few beers, looking over a bunch of files.

That wasn't right. He wanted to get back to being the guy who enjoyed that. He needed his second-in-command's eyes on this. He wanted to bounce ideas off of Tony.

But right now, bouncing ideas off Tony meant looking the fact that he had to leave right in the face, and he didn't want to do that.

"Gibbs?"

He raised one eyebrow, he'd just sort of stopped talking, thinking about Tony and keeping his eyes on the road.

"Mouth open, words coming out," Jimmy said, while making a little talking gesture with his fingers. "I'm not psychic. I'm not the one who's good with non-verbal communication. I'm the one who spends nine hours a day with a guy who talks constantly. So, I need words, out loud, coming from you."

"Not much more to tell."

"Okay, let me remind you of this, in addition to not being psychic, I'm also not stupid."

Gibbs looked irked by that, turning his gaze from traffic to Jimmy. "You were a lot easier when I had you scared into submission."

Jimmy smiled grimly. "Would you like me to shut up and let you stew?"

"If I say yes, will you?"

He shook his head, no. "It's extremely unlikely."

Gibbs rolled his eyes and added in what he'd been thinking about Tony. Jimmy nodded at that, thinking quietly, a few miles down the road he said, "This time last week, you'd have worked out with us, gone home, given Tony and Ziva a call, tossed some steaks on the fireplace, and the three of you would have gone over it?"

"Yeah."

"So, this week, work out with us, get your shower, pick up some steaks on the way home, and then give Tony and Ziva a call."

Gibbs flashed Jimmy something that could only be called 'the stink eye.'

"Fake it until it's real again. You know you're sulking. You know it's stupid. Hiding in the basement isn't going to make it any better, and it won't solve your problem with Mike. On top of that, you know you owe Tony an olive branch and showing him that you still trust and value him does that."

That made an uncomfortable amount of sense. Fortunately he was parking the car when Jimmy said that, so he didn't have to respond immediately to it.

Unfortunately, unlike Tim and Tony who knew well enough to leave the hell alone, as soon as he was done parking, Jimmy was looking at him expectantly, waiting to hear something along the lines of… Jethro rolled his eyes and said, "Fine."

Jimmy smiled brightly at that. "Good. So, besides drugs and guns, what do people smuggle? Art? Antiques? I'm sure Ducky has a good fifteen hours on different stories of how people have been smuggling artifacts out of ancient Persia and the like."

Gibbs nodded at that. Ever since everything went haywire in the Middle East, everyone who could, had been smuggling stuff out. He doubted Mike would have any objections to something like that, especially if it did provide a pile of cash for his girls to live on comfortably.

Jimmy added, "You might use people in the consulate to provide a diplomatic pouch for something like that. Don't want your ancient statue of whatever to get checked, go bribe someone into giving you diplomatic protections."

Gibbs nodded at that, too. It felt, plausible, but not right. He was about to say something along those lines when Jimmy saw Ziva and called out to her, "You and Tony have dinner plans?"

"No."

"Good, Jethro's cooking. You two are going to his place and helping him solve a mystery."

Ziva looked very pleased by that. "What sort of mystery?"

"The sort we'll tell you about when we get changed. See you in five," Jimmy said, heading them toward the locker room.

"No chance of backing out, huh?" Gibbs said quietly.

"Nope. It'll be good for you."

"Uh huh." Gibbs didn't sound convinced as he dropped his gym bag on the floor and sat down to take his shoes off.

"Speaking of good for you, how's the knee?" Jimmy asked while opening his locker.

"Fine."

"Fine, like how you're doing with Tony, fine?" Jimmy knelt in front of him, looking at the knee in question, gently poking at it once Gibbs had the brace off. "Or," he extended Gibbs' leg and tested to see how much play was in the joint when he wiggled it, "fine, fine?"

Gibbs slapped his hands away and began to get changed. "Fine."

"Run a mile, fine?" Jimmy's expression was serious as he asked.

"Not yet."

"Walk a mile?"

"Yes."

"How's it feel?"

"Aches after that. Have to ice it down."

He nodded along with that. "Any weight on the leg curls?"

"No."

"How long can you go without the brace and not have it ache?"

"An hour."

"Stand on one leg, steady?"

"About half a minute."

Jimmy thought about that, and this time, hands hovering over Jethro's knee, waited for permission (and got it) before feeling how everything moved through a full extension of his knee. "You're healing."

"Not fast enough."

"Ducky felt that way after his heart attack."

"I know."

"How about after Ziva and I fight, we work on some targeted calf, hamstring, glutes, and quadriceps exercises?"

"Am I going to have to stretch?"

"Yep." Jimmy looked like he enjoyed this idea quite a bit more than was warranted.

"Great." Jethro did not look like he was enjoying that idea.

"More flexibility means lower chance of reinjuring yourself. More flexibility means better blood flow which means faster healing. The looser you are the more of each muscle works-"

"I know. I got it the first three times you started singing that song. We'll do it. Just don't love it."

Jimmy turned back to his locker, hanging up his jacket and quickly stripping out of his church clothing. "You don't have to love it. You've just got to do it."

Gibbs stared at Jimmy not sure he wanted to say it, but… "Why?"

"You want to be able to walk without a brace?" Jimmy wasn't sure what exactly he was asking there, and the puzzled expression on his face said that loud and clear.

"Yeah, but… big picture, what's the point? Say I set the record for fastest recovery ever, how soon will I be back on full duty?"

"Middle of December?" By which Jimmy meant first week of January, and Gibbs knew it.

"So, I'll have, at most, a month. And really, a week. What's the point?"

"Oh…" Jimmy sat down on the bench next to Gibbs, understanding that this is about more than just his knee. Unfortunately he doesn't have any good answers for Gibbs, not at first. "Getting the most out of that month that you can?"

"Yippiee." Dry, withering sarcasm, more the style of Tim than anything Jimmy expected out of Gibbs went with that.

"Being able to play on the floor with little girls?"

"Better." That got a ghost of a smile, but it's a genuine ghost.

"Finding out whatever the hell Indiana Jones stuff Franks was up to, getting your own whip and fedora, and heading off into the sunset for incredible adventures that Tim'll steal and stick in his book?"

Gibbs laughed dryly at that, but that was real, too.

Jimmy poked him gently and gave him a dirty smile. "Because six months from now, when, on said adventure, you meet Ms. Right, you want all of your different bits working so you can rock her world."

That got a genuine, unreserved laugh.

"Can't get through a proper tango, let alone pick her up and carry her off Rhett Butler style if your knee's gimping out on you."

Jethro nodded wryly, and grabbed for his shorts, tugging them on.

* * *

Fire crackling gently, savory scent of steak and potatoes cooking away, one beer in his system, Operation: Fake It Till You Feel It was about to begin.

Tony also looked a bit wary as he headed in. Wary and sore.

The Boss part of Gibbs wanted to start demanding Tony get more time in at the gym. Even if he was going easy on Tim, his defense should have been good enough to avoid getting pounded _that_ badly. Three days later, and Tim was looking rough, but Tony still looked (and was moving) like he was run over by a car.

And while it was true that Tim was a hell of a lot better than he used to be, he also shouldn't be _that _much better than Tony. Gibbs was also aware of the fact that, given his part in the explosion with Tim, he couldn't just flat out ask Tony what the hell happened with that fight, though he did make a mental note to ask Jimmy, and, if need be, get him, as the neutral third party, to go lean on Tony about maybe working on his own physical defense skills.

It occurred to him that that plan may not be exactly embracing the spirit of not being the Boss any longer. So, he filed it under looking-out-for-his-boys, and that would cover it.

Ziva and Tony were staring at him, seeing the pile of files on his kitchen table, looking expectantly at him, waiting to get filled in. He offered beers and explained what he wanted them looking at.

For the first hour, it was pretty quiet. Sounds of eating, papers rustling, Ziva and Tony looking through the files.

"You got a map of the world?" Tony asked.

"Yeah." He headed upstairs, went searching through the books on the shelves, and found their atlas.

Tony stared at it when he came down, shaking his head. "Need McGee and the plasma."

"Or MTAC," Ziva added.

"Yeah. Spread it all out so we can see it easy." Tony squinted at the little map in front of him, shaking his head. "This isn't going to do it. Look, East Germany. It's" he opened the book's cover, "thirty years out of date."

"What were you thinking of putting on a map?" Gibbs asked.

"The Embassies… All but three are in the Middle East. Then he's got one in Jamaica, one in Mexico City, and one in The Dominican Republic. They're all US Embassies…" Tony tapped his fingers on the files in front of him. "Why? That's got to go with the border thing, somehow. You don't bribe US Borders and Customs to get things out of the US, but to get them in. They don't care about stuff going out."

"Look at what is not on this list," Ziva said. "He has no one at DEA, FBI, or ATF. That means your first two guesses, drugs or guns cannot be right."

"So, Jimmy's antiquities?" Gibbs asked.

"Maybe. But why no high ranking officials in the middle east? Everyone he's got there works for one of our Embassies. Afghanistan's a mess, but if you want to take the local Mona Lisa out, you still need some of their people to look the other way, not just ours." Tony was staring at Gibbs' mantle, looking at the pictures. There was a shot of Leyla and Amira. "Why was he doing this?"

"Money? Make sure the girls are set. Leyla never married Liam, so she doesn't get spousal benefits."

"Isn't her family rich?" Tony asked.

That was true. "Yes."

"And she and her mom are on good terms again, right?"

"Think so."

"And she is working for Homeland as a translator, correct?" Ziva added.

"Yes. Married last year, too."

"Mike would not have known that. But she has been working here since before he died. And she and her mother reconciled long before Mike died," Ziva said.

"So, not financial security for his girls," Tony says. "And he told you you were better off not knowing?"

Gibbs nodded.

"Not guns, not drugs, probably not antiques…" Tony was shaking his head. "No one on his list seems to know squat about that… Not, it can't be antiques, there's no fence on this list. Someone's got to buy and sell the damn things after he got them here. What's that leave?"

It hit Gibbs like a hammer, and he could see Mike smiling at him from behind Tony. "People. It leaves people." He turned to look at the picture of Leyla and Amira, and he knew, he felt it in his gut. "It leaves girls in a bad situation looking to get somewhere better."

All three of them stared at the folders in front of them. Then Gibbs started to close them and pack them up, quick. Illegal, very, very, _very_ illegal, but not immoral. Never immoral. Because Mike didn't care about legal, he never did. But he cared a whole lot about what was right, which was why he couldn't keep working for a government he felt had betrayed it's people.

He looked at Tony and Ziva and both of them shook their heads, a silent, _'We didn't see this, you didn't see it either, we're all blind, stupid, and deaf, and we weren't here to boot.'_

He nodded at that, finishing tucking the files back into their box.

A minute later, as Tony and Ziva were getting ready to leave, Tony glanced at him, almost as if he was going to ask what Gibbs was going to do with this, but, just like Mike wouldn't tell him, because he was a cop, Gibbs won't tell Tony. But he nodded at Tony, and Tony nodded back.

They got each other.

And as they left, Gibbs knew something else, this box was going back into the hidden wall, and it was going to stay there, for about three and a half months, and then, when he was no longer a cop, he was going to pull it out and really look it over.

* * *

A/N: So, I love the idea of Mike running the Afghani-girl underground railroad. That's such a wonderfully Mike sort of thing to do. I enjoyed Anonymous Was a Woman, too. Give me tons of McGee and Gibbs together and I'm happy.

But, I did not, for a second, buy the idea that Mike told Gibbs what he was up to and Gibbs didn't help.

The idea that Gibbs placed "legal" and his job over helping little girls/teens escape repeated rape and slavery did not compute. My suspension of disbelief snapped with an audible twang.

Okay, actually it snapped with an audible "No fucking way!" and while it's true that my husband doesn't curse, he agreed with my assessment of that situation.

One of the reasons we root for Gibbs is that Gibbs stands for what's right. He doesn't care about the niceties or legalities. He does the right thing at the right time for the right reasons. Add in his history with girls, let alone his go-to-the-wall-for-family ethos, and there's just absolutely no way he didn't sign those papers for Mike and get those girls on that plane.

No way!

So, I've done a bit of a rewrite here. Mike never told him. He was sensitive to who Gibbs was, and his position, and that Gibbs could get into a shit ton of trouble for this, so he didn't tell. He just, set it up so that Gibbs could, should he go through Mike's stuff, start putting some pieces together and maybe, if he found himself with some free time, a boat, and a desire to be useful, take over for him.


	22. The Details

"Good morning." He sets Rachel's coffee on her desk, and then sits on the sofa across from her.

She takes the coffee and arches an eyebrow at him. "You're in a surprisingly chipper mood. What's changed since Thursday? You and Tim come up with yet another plan to keep you on for another year?"

"No. I…" his voice trails off. In the rush of having a plan and in the mindset of you-can-tell-her-everything, the shut-the-hell-up instinct hit him a few seconds too late.

"You…" she leads looking very intrigued.

He bites his lip. "Stuff I tell you is confidential, right?"

"Mostly. Unlike, say a lawyer or a priest, the things you tell me can be subpoenaed. And should such a subpoena show up, I would have to turn my notes over. However, a thorough investigation of my notes will never reveal any illegal activities on the parts of any of my clients. I'm more interested in helping you than providing Internal Affairs with fodder for an investigation. If you're doing something that's against my own rules, I'll boot you as a client, but I won't write it down."

He finds that reassuring. "Okay."

She smiles at him, lifting her coffee, inhaling the bitter/sweet scent. He's added cream and pumpkin spice to it for her, a nice fall touch. "So, what has you in such a good mood this morning?"

"I think I found the next thing."

"Really?" She sounds intrigued by that. His email had seemed so helpless and adrift, the idea that less than a week later he had something planned out and ready to go seems incredible.

"Yeah."

"And are you going to tell me what the next thing is?"

He squints at her, fairly sure she'd be fine with it, but… Not like they've ever actually had a chat about US immigration policy. And some people really are law and order types. (But she's not. She just said she doesn't write stuff down.) Of course, some people actually agree with the idea that everyone who comes here has to go through the proper channels and that if they don't they have to leave.

And some people just don't give a shit.

And some people don't want to see anyone who's any darker than they are coming to this country.

But he's sure she's not one of them.

"How much have I told you about Mike Franks?"

Rachel looks at him, curious about what appears to be a digression. She's not following how Franks might work into any of this. She knows he's dead, so it's not like he could be doing much to help Gibbs. "He worked Shannon and Kelly's case. He got you into NCIS. He took care of you and gave you what you needed to know to go after the man who killed them."

As she says that, it hits him, she already knows he's murdered a man. Adding human trafficking to the list really isn't going to be terribly shocking compared to that. Probably. He's talking about pre-meditated, going at it cold, straight out breaking the law. This wouldn't be a crime of passion or revenge or a broken heart looking for an instant of peace.

"What do you think about that?" He sips his coffee, watching her carefully, seeing if her face matches her words.

"About which part?"

"Him giving me everything I needed to kill Hernandez."

"It's not about what I think."

The looks like standard boilerplate, but he's not sensing any condemnation. "I'm not asking for your approval. Just, trying to figure out how specific to be with the next bit."

"You want a sympathetic audience for your grand plan?"

"Doesn't everyone?"

She nods. And she knows that it's much easier to tell people what it is you intend to do if you think they'll approve. Granted, she doesn't think her approval will influence Gibbs' actions one way or another, but it will affect how free he is in the telling of what he's thinking. "You remember, the first time we met, you took me to your basement, showed me where to stand, and asked if I could feel that spot was where… that…" he senses that she doesn't have a word foul enough to describe Ari, "died?"

"Yes."

"Did I look like I had any moral qualms about that?"

"No. But it was a clean kill. He had a gun on me and was going to shoot. Ziva had every right to pull that trigger. Hernandez… I was almost a mile away. One second he was driving, the next second he wasn't. He wasn't a threat to anyone in that second. And… I had to kill him for me. If I was going to live with myself, I had to do it. But I didn't have to kill him to save or protect anyone else. And honestly, I could have shot the tires out, then shot his knees out, and brought him in. I could have made sure he stood trial. I didn't. I killed him." It feels very… freeing… to actually say it. Everyone he loves knows he did it, but this is the first time he's actually said it, said all of it, owned the fact that it was a choice, something he had to do for himself, not for honor or justice or anything like that.

"Were you right? Did he kill your girls?"

"Yes."

"Did anyone have any doubts about that?"

"No. Only reason he didn't stand trial was because he'd run across the border. Only reason he wasn't extradited was because he owned the local government there. Short of invading Mexico, we couldn't legally get him. Grabbing him to take back for trial to the US would have been illegal, too."

"Then no. I have no problem with that. What have you found? Your email sounded very lost, and you look more excited right now than I've ever seen you. Are you planning on killing someone?" It's a serious question on her part, and he can see how he walked right into that.

"No. Not killing anyone. Mike… Mike always played fast and loose with anyone else's rules. Hell, he played fast and loose with his own, too. He knew he was dying well before it happened, and started to give me his 'insurance policies…'"

"Everything you ever wanted to know about everyone at NCIS?"

"Pretty much. But there was some other stuff he gave me, too."

"What kind of other stuff?"

"Blackmail stuff. Very… specific blackmail stuff. Getting onto ten years ago now, Mike found out about his son, and his son's fiancee, Leyla, and his granddaughter, and… we smuggled her into the US when Liam, his son, died.

"Mike got it straightened out, eventually, she and Amira are legal, now…" Though it occurs to Gibbs that he doesn't actually know that for a fact. She works for Homeland, so whatever she has passed the background check. "Maybe… I'm sure her papers look really good.

"Anyway… I think… I think he kept doing it. All of the blackmail stuff, it was aimed at the kind of people you'd want to make look the other way if you were, say, smuggling people into the US. Or, some of it was the kind of stuff you'd use if you wanted someone to give you a visa."

"You think he was smuggling people into the US?"

"Girls. You don't have to do too many tours in the Middle East, especially Afghanistan, before you don't even want to look at the men there. You see a guy with a fifteen-year-old wife, and he's already got a kid or two with her, and… and the nicest thing you can say is you don't want to look at him. He's probably not a 'bad' guy. He's some farmer from the middle of nowhere just trying to keep himself and his family fed. He's not violent. He's not a terrorist. He treats her as well as any guy treats a woman back there. It's his culture, but his culture's rotten. He's got no problem fucking a little girl. No problem giving his own little girls to some other asshole. And he's one of the good guys.

"One of the cases we did was a series of bombings to destroy a school for girls. Girls reading was too horrifying for those bastards, so the school had to go. They killed the teachers. They tortured some of the girls, too. Other cases, ones we didn't work, where they barred the doors and burned the girls alive. You… You see stuff like that and all that you can feel is rage. You stop seeing the men there as individual people. Some good, some bad, some indifferent. And you start seeing predators, start seeing evil." Gibbs shakes his head. "Not supposed to do that. Makes for sloppy work. But… Can't say I don't feel it. Can say I try not to work too close with the locals in situations like that."

"And you think that Mike was the kind of guy who'd have no problem helping girls like that get to the US?"

"I know it. We smuggled Leyla in. Liam died before they could get married. It wasn't legal, at all. Her family eventually reconciled with her, but… She can tell you stories that'd make you want to bomb Iraq back into the dark ages. Just make you want to kill everyone who had a hand in it or ever turned a blind eye to it. And if she got talking to Mike, and she would have, he'd have done something about it."

"And now you're thinking of doing something about it?"

"He gave me all of his leverage. There's only one reason to do that."

She smiles gently. "I'm fine with the assumption that Mike wants you to do it. That's not what I'm asking. Are _you_ going to do something about it?"

"I'm tempted." Gibbs shakes his head. "More than tempted. I _want_ to do it. Once we put it together, it was like a light going on. I'd be good at it. Probably couldn't do a lot. But an old guy with a boat and a 'friend.' Hell, I don't care if they think I'm a pervert buying sex as long as I can get 'em on the boat and out of there."

"Afghanistan is a landlocked country."

He flashes her his _don't bother me with stupid details_ look. "Doesn't have to be Afghanistan. Iran, Sudan, Saudi Arabia, Somalia they've all got ports."

"And they're lousy places to be a girl."

He nods. "Pakistan's not a picnic, either. India's got a lot of honor killings. Not like it'd be hard to find a place. Probably wouldn't be hard to find them on this side of the world, either."

"So, how do you find the girls? I'm assuming you're not planning on just sailing over and kidnapping some."

"I don't know. You're right, you don't just run up and grab a few. Gotta find the ones who want out. And Mike didn't leave me anything on how he found the girls. Or if he did, I haven't figured it out yet."

Rachel pulls him a bit closer to reality. "_If_ he found girls. You don't actually know that's what he was doing."

"It fits."

"And it makes you happy, gives you a sense of purpose." She's giving him that knowing look, filling in the _is this what he was doing or is this what you want him to have been doing_ with her expression.

"Yeah."

"Say you dig into this and find that Mike was doing something else. Then what?"

"I don't know. I like the idea of this. Even if I could only get one out a year…"

"If you can't do this… If you can't find someone to hook you up with girls in need of transport, then what?"

"The same problem I had before. I might find something else, but I won't be as good at it as I was at being a cop. Say I signed up to be an EMT, yes, it's useful, it'll save lives, but it's not what I'm best at. Any other EMT will do as good of a job as I could, if not better. And what I'm best at, looking at people figuring them out, solving puzzles, I won't be doing anymore."

"Cold cases?"

"Leon's offered. I'll probably take him up on them. I'll be ripping my hair out because they won't let me in the field for more than ten days a year. It'll be my job to go through the paperwork on dead cases, see if there's anything that still can be found, then tell someone else to go find it.

"If something else is people, they might let me do interrogations. Don't need fast reflexes for that, just a good brain. Or not, there're plenty of Probies who'll need practice, and it's not like there's any rush on a cold case."

"Private detective? Your friend Fornell, he'll be hitting the mandatory retirement age soon, too, right? You two could partner up."

"FBI lets team leaders stick around until 62. Tobias still has another year and if they bump him up one more level, another four because you get to hang on to 65 if you hit management. Emily'll be going to college soon. I know they've got plans for traveling and stuff like that once she's out of the nest."

"What was your original plan?"

"Have Shannon finished by now. Wake up, deal with the hangover from the retirement party, then out to sea. Float around until I got it out of my system. Come home four, six, eight months, however long, later. Maybe not come back at all."

"So, it's safe to say that plan's well out of date."

"Can't miss eight months of my girls. Eight months from now Kelly'll be unrecognizable, and Molly'll be two and a half… Anna's due in December, miss eight months with her she'll go from a bright pink peanut to… like Kelly, unrecognizable." He shakes his head. "Not heading off for more than a few weeks…" He thinks of how long it'd take to get to the middle east and back by Shannon. "Three months, tops, now."

"Which means you need to solve the problem, not run away from it."

"Yeah. And this… This solves the problem. I can pick up new languages fast. And if I could find someone to get the girls to the Black Sea… I already speak Russian, and Leon's offering me a shot to go spend some time in the Crimea, keep an eye on things."

"That sounds dangerous. Mixing those jobs."

He nods. "Be good cover though. Depends on the girl. If she's a child… Grandpa and his girl doing some touristy things. Give her some time to work on her English before hitting the States. If you start somewhere where no one else speaks English, no one will notice if hers is bad."

"What happens to her after she gets to the States? Are you planning on adopting a collection of girls?"

"No. Mike had to do something with them."

"If that's what he was doing."

"If… And if he wasn't… I could do it. I'd be good at it. I've got good connections. I don't know about either of the ends, but I can handle the middle part. I've got the boat, just have to finish it. I'm old and white and speak perfect English and I'm a retired cop and Marine, Coast Guard isn't going to look twice at me. Shannon's small enough… And… I was talking with the kids a bit about maybe finding a place on the Chesapeake, maybe the Potomac, if it had its own pier… Wouldn't have to deal with customs or docking fees or any of the rest of it. Just an old guy, maybe with a dog, on a boat. Look like I'm out for a day or two with my girl."

Rachel smiles at him. "It's a nice fantasy."

"Yes."

"What would you do about making it real?"

"Finish the damn boat. There's step one. Talk to Leyla, that'd be step two. Can't do anything if I can't find the girls."

"You think maybe she was involved?"

"I don't know. Knowing Mike, probably not. He would have wanted to keep her as out of it as he could. But she might still have a clue as to who to talk to."

"And by then, you'll have the boat finished?"

"Yeah. I don't want to be messing around with blackmailing ICE agents or the TSA guys at the airport, trying to get them to look away. I'd go old school. Boat, quiet bit of beach, blend in, just another sailor on vacation. The east coast is really big, there's got to be some bits of it no one's watching too closely."

"Or like you said, Grandad out with his girl, assuming the girl's young enough, doesn't matter if anyone is watching. You just stroll on out like it's the most normal thing ever."

"Go out enough with my own girls, get a reputation for being the old guy with the pile of kids on his boat all the time anyway. They might just assume I was out with the kids and some of their friends."

"I have a feeling that won't work for a few years at least."

"Probably not. But in a decade… Fifteen years…"

"Would you want to involve your whole family in this? Mike didn't tell you about this while he was alive for a reason, right?"

"Yeah. If he was doing it… Yeah. If he told me, it'd have put me in a bad situation."

"And if you tell your kids…"

"Same thing."

She looks at him knowingly. "It does seem like this has given you a lot to think about."

"Yeah."

"I also take it that you couldn't care less about the whole _illegal_ thing?"

He nods.

"How about channeling your energy in a more… socially acceptable direction?"

"Like what?"

"Getting involved politically. Trying to get our immigration laws changed? Trying to make it easier for girls like the ones you're talking about to get asylum?"

He shakes his head. "Rather do good than talk about good." He thinks about that for another second. "Wouldn't be good at it. No patience for bullshit. Jen was good at it. Leon's good at it. Me, I'd sit there for five minutes, until my blood pressure shot so high I could feel my pulse in my eyes, and then I'd storm out and go shoot things to blow off steam. Not my thing."

"It could be your thing."

He shakes his head. "Even if it was, we're not talking about girls who can just head over to the consulate and sign up for a visa. Someone still needs to get them out safe."

"And clandestine missions, you and a boat and the open sea, swooping in and saving the day, doing the impossible job, that's your thing?"

He nods vehemently. "That's my thing!"

"And it's very important to you to be not just good, but excellent at what you do?"

The thinks about that for a moment. "Yeah, it is."

"How are you with learning new things?"

"Usually pick things up pretty quick."

That isn't what she's trying to get him to think about so she shifts the question a little. "How are you with someone teaching you something new? Someone you don't know or respect?"

That gets a shrug. He didn't bite Tim's head off when he was setting up the computer, and he did call about the gchat thing, but it's also true that now that it's up and running he'd rather take six hours looking for help online than ask a stranger for help.

"This girl rescue idea, this doesn't require you to learn something new from someone. Not as a student. You'd have to investigate, track down leads, then find the girls, then infiltrate, sail, land somewhere, smuggle them in. You might need to spend a lot of time with Rosetta Stone picking up Farsi or Arabic, but letting someone else see that you don't know what you're doing wouldn't be part of it, right?"

He nods in concession of that.

"But, say, signing up to be an EMT, that would require you to learn someone else's system, be the low man on the totem pole, deal with another person's rules, take orders from someone else. Realistically, as an EMT, you'd be saving lives every week. Good at it or not, you'd still be there getting people to the hospital when they needed to go."

He nods at that, too.

She looks at him, sipping her coffee, not saying anything.

He sips his too, also not saying anything. She's got a very good point, but not one he wants to comment on, not right now.

She sees that, nods, allowing him time to think about it, and says, "How are things going with Tony?"

He tells her about Jimmy's fake it 'til you feel it' plan, and how he'd put it into action the night before.

"I have a feeling I'd like Jimmy."

"You haven't met him?"

She shakes her head. "Saw him in passing for a few seconds. But we've never sat down and had a conversation. So, how did faking it feel?"

"Uncomfortable. Once we got into the work, it was better. Once I figured it out, and the light flicked on, and Tony wasn't so much the… Tim's got a word for it… harbinger?" Rachel nods, that word will do. "The image of things ending, it was a lot easier. I think we were in good shape as I packed everything up and we all agreed to pretend we had no idea what Franks was up to."

"But you haven't gotten back to work, yet."

"Yeah, and today should be…" He looks up and shakes his head. Then he fills her in on how the last case went, and why he's going to have Fornell and, probably, because it's fall and it happens every fall, Diane, in his lap for the next day or two. "… Tony's looking at having me handle them as a sort of payback."

"Excellent," she says with a smile. "So… is Diane seeing anyone? Thinking about finding yourself a quiet bit of parking lot?"

He glares at her, but there's no anger in it. "I think I said something about being drunk, flirty, and at a wedding for that to happen."

Her expression says that she considered those aspects negotiable.

He shakes his head. "No. We'll snipe at each other, and…" He shakes his head again.

"I'm not saying you need to fall in love with her. But, enjoy it… Without feeling guilty about it. Take the time to see the woman who's really there, and enjoy her. Doesn't have to be romantic or sexual."

"Is this today's homework assignment?"

"Yep. You don't need my help on figuring out the mechanics of what happens next. And it sounds like you won't move in that direction for a while, yet." He nods, besides working on Shannon, getting her done, adding some less than common modifications to her interior design, he won't move on that until he's officially retired. "Meanwhile, you've got a chance to experiment with something here, namely letting yourself genuinely feel an emotional response to a woman you like. Just go with it. See where you end up. It's supposed to be fun, so let yourself have some fun."


	23. Seeing Diane

Inter-agency squabbling over who gets the lead is the fun part. But once that's done, and the perp's behind bars, there's the much less fun part of alphabet soup cooperation. Namely, you and all your compatriots sit down with the casework, go through all of it, and then break it down into who's got jurisdiction over what, how, why, and all the rest of it.

It's long, boring, and usually as soon as you get something worked out the prosecutors toss the whole damn thing out anyway.

But you've still got to do it.

Gibbs entirely understands why Tim is sitting there, across from Fornell and Diane in the conference room, all of them with their laptops out, working on who gets what (The answer that seems to be winning: Diane gets all of it. Don't mess with the IRS. The IRS always wins.) while Tim explains how he got them to Bing in the first place.

And given the way Fornell was glaring at Draga, and the way Diane was watching him like she wanted to pounce on him while they waited in the bullpen for Tim to grab his stuff, Gibbs gets why Draga isn't in there with them.

But, beyond amusing Tony, he's not seeing any reason why _he's_ in there. Not like his presence is enriching the discussion on any level.

So, while it's true that he's not doing anything particularly useful on a helping Tim keep a hold of any of the case. (Tim's doing as well as can be expected, namely he's losing. Diane is rapidly taking over the entire case. Apparently there is a specific level of IRS Hell reserved for violators of the ACA, and Diane is gleefully getting ready to introduce Herden to all of its torturous glories.) It's also true that there's not much he can do, so he settles in to try and do what Rachel had suggested. See and enjoy the woman who's actually there, not just his image of her.

They saw each other, very briefly, last fall. Tim and Abby were honeymooning. He was happy from the wedding. She was happy with a new boyfriend. Fornell was getting ready to propose to Wendy. All three of them were in a good place, good mood. The case went fast and smooth.

So, the last time he really talked to her, when she dropped in on him back after she got a hit called on her and Fornell, was when he told her to not hold it against Victor that he was Victor.

And now he's trying to not hold it against her that she's not Shannon. Trying to see the woman who's really there.

She's dominating the conversation. Half of that's just her. Half of it is both Tim and Fornell are well-versed in the art of dealing with her. Path of least resistance gets everyone out alive and in one piece.

The heat, that's real. That's her and something he always liked. She's spouting regulations, quoting how many violations they've got Herden on, laying out why the case is theirs, and she's all fire. Her eyes are sparking, her words fast and hot.

It's overkill. Neither of the guys are putting up much (any) fight, but that was her, too. She'd keep going until she collapsed (after going much, much, much longer than anyone thought she could) regardless of if she needed to keep going.

That's something he feels a kinship to. He'd keep going past all reason, too. But two people together like that, probably not the best idea ever. Someone's got to know when it's time to throw in the towel, and neither of them ever did.

"Oh, come on, I am not giving you their bookkeeper! You are not investgating Grandma." Tim taking a stand draws him back from musing on Diane.

"What do you mean, giving her to me? His company was ripping off the VA. She had to—"

"No. Leave her be. She's eighty-four and senile."

"You hand over those notes, Chucky!"

"NO!"

"She's in violation—"

"I don't care. You can't have her!"

"Diane, you know those laws are so complicated every company in the US is currently in violation of something in regards to them," Fornell hops in, trying to calm things down.

"That was the point, Tobias! We'd have leverage over everyone. I can't believe you guys haven't figured that out. Company gets stubborn, owner won't talk, call us in and we will find at least half a dozen ACA violations. They tell you whatever it is rather than pay the fines. It's literally impossible to be in perfect compliance. That was the point."

"Yeah, well Herden's singing," Tim says. "He already gave us Bing, and we've got everything we need on him for his own for the VA fraud, leave Granny out of it."

"Chucky…"

Tim's got that very determined look on his face, made significantly more sinister by the bruising. "You just said the whole point of it was to screw people. You're not screwing her. She was doing her job as well as she could, and from what we saw her job was literally writing checks. Leave her be."

Diane glares at Tim, but shuts up, so, hell, maybe people do change. Maybe she's finally learned to occasionally drop things. Gibbs certainly knows he has.

At that point, Gibbs notices they're getting low on coffee. (In the sense that his personal cup is about half full. Okay, they aren't even remotely low on coffee, but he wants to get out of there.) "Coffee run, who wants what?"

Tobias leaps up. "I'll help. You two keep squabbling. We'll be back in about a month." He pulls Gibbs out and they walk, slowly, (without actually having gotten any orders) toward the coffee trolley.

Gibbs is easing toward the elevator when Fornell shakes his head. "Steps. Slower."

"Can't. Bad knee."

"Oh, right." He looks at Jethro's leg, as if he could see through his pants to the knee under. "Doing better?"

"Don't need a crutch anymore. That's better, right?"

Fornell nods. The door to the elevator opens and they step in. Once in there, Fornell turns it off. "Okay, so what the hell happened to McGee and DiNozzo? When we saw McGee, he wouldn't tell us what happened to him. DiNozzo's beat the hell up, too, and he's not talking, either. What did your team get into?"

Gibbs shakes his head.

"Jethro? DiNozzo looks really hurt. Like, why isn't he on sick leave level hurt? Why all the silence? And don't give me that classified crap. Diane fell for it, because she's not really a cop. I am. And I'm more than read in on this case. What happened?"

Gibbs rolls his eyes. "It's private."

"Private? Nothing that visible is private. You want private, you take sick leave until you can cover the bruises with makeup. You walk around that beat up, you don't get private anymore."

"Not saying."

Fornell stares at him while Gibbs flips on the elevator. Then his eyes go very, very wide and his jaw drops. "Did they do that to each other?"

Gibbs doesn't say, and his face doesn't say either, but not denying it is just as much a tell as saying yes.

Fornell shuts off the elevator again. "What happened? Are they okay?"

"They're okay, enough. I'm not saying what happened, because that's between them."

"Nothing like… you know…" Fornell looks meaningfully between the two of them. The last time Fornell was as badly beaten up as Tony was, Diane was five months pregnant and Gibbs had just gotten back from his float.

"No. Not that kind of private."

Fornell's staring at him in stupefaction. "What the hell else is worth beating a man that badly for?" He remembers Tim coming to Gibbs' asking for help, worried about going to jail for beating the shit out of someone. Fornell didn't say anything then, but he was fairly sure that without a gun, Tim couldn't beat the shit out of someone. Obviously, he'd been wrong about that.

Gibbs shakes his head again, he's not saying.

"Jethro…" Gibbs knows that by not answering, Fornell's left wondering what on earth Tony could have possibly done to piss Tim off that badly, and none of the things he's coming up with are any good.

"Ask them. They want you to know; they'll tell."

"McGee really did that to him?"

Gibbs nods.

"Damn! Remind me not to piss him off."

"Don't piss McGee off. It's a bad plan."

"You told me you were training with him and Palmer. You turn Palmer into a ninja, too?"

Gibbs half smiles and rolls his eyes. He's not about to take credit for all of this. "I got them to able to throw a real punch and dodge. They practiced a lot with each other, got good. Ziva's on ninja training."

Fornell flicks on the elevator again, shaking his head, _Never would have thought he had it in him _clear on his face. They probably get about ten feet before he flicks it off again. "Okay. No. You need to tell me. Either McGee's a psycho or… DiNozzo really fucked something up. Either way, I've still got to work with them. What the hell happened?"

"Stop being nosey."

"I'm a cop. It's my job to be nosey. And this isn't just nosey. Which one of the two of them went bonkers?"

"They've both got your back. They've got each other, too. That's all you need to know."

Fornell flashes Gibbs his frustrated look, knowing Gibbs isn't going to give on this.

* * *

Seth starts laying out cups when he sees Gibbs and Fornell head toward him. "Regular for McGee and I, double caff Sumatra, one cream, three sugars, two squirts of hazelnut, whipped cream on top, and caramel sauce, and… cappuccino for you, right?" Gibbs asks Tobias.

He nods. "Can't believe you remember her order."

"Only had to watch her take a sip, grimace, put it back down and glare at me three times before I had it down."

A small smile crosses Tobias' face. "And then you only got it wrong on occasion to piss her off."

"Something like that. Put French vanilla in it once to see what she'd do."

"What'd she do?"

"Gave me a thermos of what smelled and tasted like my coffee the next morning. It was decaf."

"Oh." Fornell winces. He's seen Gibbs sans caffeine. It's isn't pretty.

"Didn't notice until my head started to hurt and my hands were shaking."

Fornell shakes his head while watching Seth make up their orders.

"So… She seeing anyone these days?"

Fornell whips his head back towards Gibbs. "Why on earth would you want to know that!"

"Curious."

"Bull."

"Looking out for Draga."

"More plausible, still bull."

He glares at Fornell, who still hasn't answered the question.

"Best I know, she's single. But these days all single means is not married. She's probably got three or four Dragas lurking in the background somewhere."

"I'll let him know."

"Like hell you will. You aren't contemplating doing something stupid, are you?"

"No. Just asking."

"You never just ask anything."

"I'm just asking about this."

Fornell's not buying that. "Like hell you are."

* * *

_See who's really there. Enjoy it._ Heat, passion, intellect. Once they got through the territorial squabbling, Tim's taking her through what he did to find Herden, and though he and Fornell are somewhere between asleep from boredom and lost by the details, Diane is following along just fine.

She might not be a hacker, but she can see the money trail Tim honed in on, and understands some of the techniques he used to follow it.

He's showing her the database of Bing's fraudsters, and why he called in Fornell, and she's nodding along, pointing out that some of these people are legitimate businessmen running companies that get actual government grants and the like.

Tim's nodding back, talking about how the first link in this chain, the guy they found Herden through, had produced similar issues. He actually did genuine web work in addition to bilking the VA.

Gibbs thinks that in some ways Diane and Tim are very similar. Diane was the oldest of three girls. Daddy, career Navy, wanted boys, sailors to follow in his footsteps. Mom wanted princesses. She could never be enough of a boy to make her father happy, and wasn't the docile little girl her mom had envisioned, either.

Unlike Tim, instead of hiding in plain sight, she responded by being sharp and aggressive. She couldn't ever be a boy, so she'd scare the crap out of them, be harder and better and smarter than they were, and she'd make sure they knew it. Make sure Daddy knew it. But in the end, Daddy didn't much care. By the time they were getting married Daddy was on his third family, this time with two little boys, and didn't want to be reminded of his girls.

She was never going to be a placid as her sisters, but she was prettier. So she played that up, too. Her mom wanted pretty, so pretty she was. Granted, her mom wanted Cinderella, and what she ended up with was Scarlet O'Hara. Last he heard Mom was in Florida living with Gillian (her older sister) and her insane husband. (He only met Gillian once, liked her, too. Never met the husband, though he used to be FBI. They both did. Fornell's got some really bizarre stories about them.)

He sees, watching Diane and Tim working together, two very different responses to similar childhoods.

Tim quietly begged for attention by doing the job better, faster, spending more time at it than anyone around him. He'd light up when he was petted, and put his head down and work harder when he wasn't.

Diane demanded attention, screamed for it, hit him in the head with a golf club when he kept ignoring her. That's what she had said to him, that it was all she had ever wanted, someone to love her and fill up that hole. Someone who would pay attention.

And right now, he's paying attention.

* * *

Tim stands up and stretches. "Lunch break?"

The other three nod. Everyone is tired of sitting around, talking numbers, and a break sounds like a splendid idea.

"I'm going to head down and see if Abby's free. Back to it in an hour?"

More nodding.

Diane looks at Jethro, head tilted to the side, "Get some coffee with me?"

"Sure."

"Just got to freshen up. Meet you downstairs?"

He nods, pleased, and smiles at her.

"Are you flirting with our ex-wife?" Tobias asks the second the door closes behind her.

Gibbs shakes his head. He's not flirting. He's intentionally not flirting because part of this whole see the person who's there, involves actually seeing Diane, and if he's going to do that, really see who's there, not moving into flirty, romance, get laid mode is the plan. So, no, he's not flirting.

He is being nice, and considerate, and, maybe, looking at her longer than is strictly necessary, while listening very intently. And, maybe, smiling more than usual. Because he's putting her at ease, getting her to talk more, and actually listening to the answers.

_Shit. That's flirting, isn't it?_

"Don't give me that. What could you possibly be thinking, flirting with the Spawn of Satan?"

"I'm not flirting, I'm… being nice?"

"You aren't nice! You especially aren't nice to _her. _What are you doing?"

"Just, tryin' something."

"Well, don't!"

"It's just coffee."

"It's never _just coffee_ with her. She's probably got five boyfriends she's happily off _having coffee_ with. Hell, she probably _had coffee_ with McGee. And she's been eyeballing Draga like he's an extra foamy mocha latte with chocolate and caramel sauce. You don't need to go down that road again."

"That's not… You remember _that thing_ I told you I was doing, with Cranston."

"God, you make that sound like _getting coffee_, too. Most people would just say, my therapist said…"

"Fine. She suggested-"

"Picking things up with Diane? That woman is insane!"

"No. Just… I like her. I always did like her."

"That's the problem! She's likeable. You think you're getting this cute, little, sassy kitten, next thing you know your heart is broken, your bank account is empty, _and she's having a kid with another guy_."

"_I know,_ Tobias. Not talking about marrying her again. Just, trying to see how liking someone feels. Without all of the baggage."

"You have an entire airport terminal's worth of baggage with that woman!"

_So do you, so stop dropping your baggage on me, okay? _Comes through loud and clear in Gibbs' expression. "Just coffee. Just talking."

"You don't _talk!"_

"I'm talking to you!"

"No, you're listening to me talk about you shooting yourself in your own ass and then rubbing salt in the wound and then finishing it off with a nice dip in a bath tub full of lemon juice." They spend a good minute staring at each other, Gibbs feeling frustrated, Fornell searching his face, trying to figure out what on Earth Gibbs could possibly be trying to do, before Fornell takes a quick breath and says, "Right, we're going out tonight and getting you laid. Look, I know, trust me,_ I know_ what you're seeing when you look at her, and I know it's been a long time and you're getting edgy—"

Gibbs holds up his hands and winces. "Stop. Right there. It's not about…" Fornell's still talking about how Tony's got to know somewhere they can find a girl for him. "Stop!" That finally ends Fornell's dissertation on the subject of getting Gibbs laid. "Don't wanna get laid. Just want to sit down and have a cup of coffee and _talk_ to a woman I like."

Fornell doesn't look like he thinks that's legit, but he's willing to go with it. "There has _got_ to be some other woman you like who will have a cup of coffee with you." Fornell is watching Gibbs carefully so he catches that little flicker in the back of his eye. "Okay, what the hell was that? There is someone, isn't there?"

"Yes, but I can't ask her."

Fornell's mid _don't give me that lame excuse _look when something hits him. "She married or something?"

"Yes. She's married," Gibbs says, relieved to get off of this.

"Well, that doesn't mean you go after Diane."

"I'm not _going after_ her. It's not about that."

Fornell doesn't seem to buy that, but he backs off, curious about the new one. "So why haven't you mentioned her?"

Gibbs opens and closes his mouth in his _I don't know, don't make me think or talk about this_ gesture.

"How married is she?" Fornell asks.

"Married! Doesn't matter if she's barely married or joined at the hip with the guy. She's married."

"Do I know her?"

"No." _Drop it_ is written all over Gibbs' face.

"Only new woman you've mentioned in months is…" Fornell's eyes go wide and his shoulders slump. "Oh, holy shit, Jethro, that's a bad plan! That's the mother of all bad plans. That's the only plan I can think of where going out with Diane sounds like a sane alternative. What the hell is wrong with you?"

Jethro is giving Fornell his _I am so done with you_ look. "Nothing. There is no plan. The only plan is have a cup of coffee with Diane and remember what liking someone felt like. That's it."

"Sounds like you remember liking someone just fine."

"Yeah, I like Rachel. Nothing I can do about it, so that's that. Nothing I can do about it is probably part of liking her."

"Like, seriously liking her?" The warning bells are all going off in Fornell's expression, and Gibbs knows he's asking, _falling in love with her?_

"No. Just. I like talking to her."

"You like _talking_ to a woman?"

"I'm not completely mute!" He looks at Fornell, earnestly. "It's… nice, you know?"

Fornell squeezes his shoulder. "God, you are so lonely, aren't you?" he says gently.

Gibbs rolls his eyes and shakes his head. Fornell keeps looking at him, waiting for a response. Finally he says, "I'd like to not screw it up this time. I know I'm not in a good place for it, yet, but… yeah, I miss it." He looks away from Fornell. "I'd like to sit down and just talk to a woman. Ya know?"

Fornell nods, that he understands. "But, Diane?"

"When we weren't fighting, it was always fun. I liked playing with her. You, me, and her, remember the dinners we'd have?"

"Yeah." Fornell nods at that, too.

"It was fun."

"It was."

"I'm not going back, but… be nice to feel something like that again. I know how to push her buttons. She knows mine. And, maybe… this was what Cranston was thinking… maybe trying that, seeing her for her, not her for some sort of Shannon substitute… would be a good thing. She told me once I was using her as a human anti-depressant. Too much truth there. Might be nice to just see her for her, at least once."

"Tall order for one cup of coffee."

Gibbs shrugs, smiles, says dryly, "Might be pie, too."

Fornell snorts a laugh at that, then gets serious. "Jethro, don't fall in love with her again."

"I didn't the first time."

_Give me a break_ is unspoken but clear. "How long you been telling yourself that lie? She wasn't Shannon; that doesn't mean you didn't love her."

"I…"

"I was there, remember? Steaks on the fire, sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace, her cuddled up on your lap, feeding you little bites, teasing both of us. Us telling her about our different cases, sounding like big damn heroes. All three of us sucking down beer and laughing. Just because it wasn't fairy-tale, forever love didn't mean it wasn't real."

Gibbs remembers those nights. Hasn't thought about them for a long time, especially not in a way that recognized that those had been good nights.

"And I heard your voice when you got that letter. You don't sound like that if it's someone you were just fond of. It went wrong, Jethro. I fucked you over. You fucked her over. She fucked both of us. It went wrong in almost every direction it could go wrong. You loved her. I loved her. She… God only knows… I think she loved us, or you, at least. That's why it hurt. That's why it _still_ hurts. And you don't have it in you to give her the attention she wants. I didn't either. I don't know if any man does. But you'll like her again, because she's warm and fun and beautiful and sexy and sharp… and you'll get sucked in, and she'll hurt you when she wants more than you can give. And, honestly, you'll hurt her because you can't be the man she needs."

"Just coffee."

Fornell shakes his head. "Fine, have your coffee. Tomorrow night, come to dinner with Wendy and me."

Gibbs is on the verge of nodding when he notices something in how Fornell said that. His eyes narrow. "Dinner?"

"Yeah, we've had dinner before. Food, at night. You remember how that works, right?"

"What else?"

"Else?"

"Yeah, you've got something else in mind."

"Wendy's sister is in town," Fornell says with a guilty smile.

"No. We've already got the same ex-wife. I am not getting hooked up with your sister-in-law."

"You'd like her."

"I don't need to get set up."

"Says the guy so lonely he's contemplating coffee with Satan Incarnate."

"Tobias…"

"Fine. Don't do anything stupid."

"I won't."

* * *

"Tobias try to talk you out of this?" Diane asks half a minute later when he meets her outside the conference room.

"Yep."

"What are you doing, Jethro? Trying to give him heart failure? Last time you spent that much time looking at me, we were still married."

He raises an eyebrow in question, looking her over intently. "You mind?"

"No. Nice to know you still like to look. Starting to wonder about that these last few years."

"The view was never the problem. Always liked the view." He smiles warmly. "Still like the view."

"Thank you. You're looking awfully fit these days, too. You and Chucky make some sort of get in shape pledge?"

"Something like that. Want some food to go with your coffee for lunch?"

"Sure. Know anywhere that makes a decent salad around here?"

"I know someone who'll whip one up for you."

* * *

Monday and Tuesdays are Elaine's weekend, so while they do go to the diner, the service is a bit less personal. Which actually suits Gibbs just fine. Elaine has heard of Diane, and… that's a complication he doesn't need to get into.

Mindy, the girl who takes over on Elaine's days off is friendly and efficient, but not prescient. They actually have to order.

By the time the food is sitting in front of them, he had gotten through why he and Tim are in better shape. (The quick version. He doesn't like to whip out Jimmy and Breena's heartache to just anyone. He may have indicated it was more of a passing on of Dad-like martial virtues to his two younger boys, and then a few weeks later Ziva got into it.)

"So, Tony just join in as well?"

He looks at her curiously.

"He's all beat to hell. Tim's all beat to hell. They obviously fought each other. Won't talk about it. Probably because Tony's supposed to be the Boss and he's trying to save some face in front of Draga. Can't admit he's out of shape. Looks like he needs to practice more, probably underestimated Chucky, or overestimated how fast he still is. He's getting a bit soft around the middle, you know?" Gibbs rolls his eyes at that. "Been letting Draga and Tim run down the bad guys?"

"Something like that." Gibbs says, after sipping his coffee, figuring that letting her think she knew what happened would work better than trying to deny anything. Then he told her about putting Ed in his place, because that story did involve all of them working together, happy.

"Show me some pictures," she says as he wraps up the story of them putting Ed in his place, smile on her face, having enjoyed that tale.

"Hmm?"

"That's what old people do when they reminisce, right? Chucky showed me some shots of his girl, and you with her. So, show me the rest of your family."

"You're not that old."

She laughs at that. "I'll be fifty next year. I'm old enough."

"Happens to all of us. They're making me retire in January." He switches around to sit next to her and pulls out his phone.

She looks taken aback. "I was expecting you to whip out a shot from your wallet."

"Tim got me this."

"And got you to use it?"

"It's… handy. Plus he wired it so that if you mess with it, it'll take your hand off."

She rolls her eyes. "You and your guns."

"This one has pictures of my kids on it." He grins. "My Sig doesn't do that."

She rolls her eyes again and laughs a little. "So, show me some shots. Got one of all of you together?"

"Got one of all the grown-ups." He flips around and finds the shot of all of them from Tony and Ziva's wedding.

"Oh, wow. You give away the bride?"

"Both times."

"I know everyone but the lady with Ducky. Who's that?"

"Penny Langston. Tim's grandma."

"Date for the evening?"

"That one and every one after it. They're living together now."

"I saw some shots from Tim and Abby's wedding. Emily kept telling me about it. She had a blast, she's still Facebook friends with… Harper, right?" Gibbs nods. "But the ones she took were of the other kids or Tobias. Didn't see a shot of you."

"Here, this one will make you laugh." He found some shots with him in them from Tim and Abby's wedding.

"Are you wearing a morning suit?"

"Yep."

"I had to pull your toenails out with pliers to get you into a tux. What did Abby do?"

"Pouted a little. Threatened to have a RenFaire wedding."

She laughs at that. "I would have paid money to see you dressed like that."

He smiles wryly. "You and everyone else."

She's holding his phone, flipping through the shots, and stops of the one of Tim and Abby dancing together at Tony and Ziva's wedding reception.

"They really that happy?"

"Yeah."

"Good. The night I slept over, when we were talking… I mentioned how things were going wrong with Victor, and he talked a little about how sometimes you need time to get yourself right before you can make it work. That sometimes the second time was a charm."

"Sometimes."

"Looks like it was for them." He catches the wistfulness in her voice, and sees the deep loneliness. He thinks that was always there, too, part of what drew him to her, his sorrow to hers. He catches another layer there, the question she's too hurt to ask, too burned by him and years of rubbing each other raw, the part of her that opened up in his basement, named how she felt, and watched him say nothing.

But that spark is still there. Hope he doesn't feel like he ever earned. It's still lurking back there, still striving for his attention and affection.

He very lightly, just the back of his forefinger, strokes her cheek. Her eyes close and she leans into the touch. "I'm sorry, Diane. Sorry I never saw you for who you are. Sorry I couldn't enjoy you for you. Sorry I couldn't let it go."

She smiles, warm and pleased, overwhelmed by that, for a second, and for one more second, and then on the third second she pulls her armor back into place. He sees her snap it back around herself. And he nods at her, recognizing it, as she says, "Oh, God, Jethro, did you join a twelve step program or something?"

He smirks at that, shaking his head, taking a bite of his meatloaf. "Or something."

"Good, Lord. I knew… I didn't know it was…"

"No. Not that sort of or something. Just… Remember me telling you that I'm not such a great guy to be?"

She nods.

He took the phone back from her and found a shot of him with Molly and Kelly. "Got a bunch of little girls gonna be looking up to me. Another one's due in December. Really hope Tony and Ziva have one, too, someday. Got a bunch of kids who need a Dad. It's time to get to being a man worth looking up to. Time to get to being the guy I was supposed to be."

"And this is part of that?"

"Maybe. Don't know. Doing a lot of thinking, lot of figuring stuff out."

"You're not dying are you?" She says pointedly, spearing a cherry tomato on her fork, lifting it to her lips, amused smile on her face at how intensely he's watching her.

"Hope not."

"But…"

"But they're making me retire. Tony's in charge of the team now. Tim'll be heading to Cybercrime any day. Duck's gonna fly soon. Everything changes."

"Yes, it does."

"Emily's a sophomore now, right?"

"Uh huh." She sighs. "We're starting to look at colleges next month. PSATs are next week. Her grades are good, and if her scores are high enough, she's talking about skipping her senior year and going straight onto college."

"Has she mentioned that to Tobias yet?"

"No, not yet. He's still debating going to college with her and sleeping at the foot of her bed with a loaded gun."

"He's not that bad."

"He's not that good, either. He's scared for her. Afraid he didn't do enough hands on dadding and that she'll run off and throw herself at the first boy who shows her any real affection."

Gibbs shrugs. He knows it's real. Fornell's talked about it. But he missed that phase with Kelly, and now it's a good thirteen years off for his girls. "Want me to help talk him down?"

"Sure. If it happens. Got to see how she does on the PSATs, might not be an option. But if it is… She's so excited to get out there. I want it for her."

Gibbs nods, he knows all about wanting good things for your kids. He takes another bite of his meatloaf. "Now that you've been back at it a while, how you liking have your own badge?"

She takes a sip of her coffee and smiles. "Feeling overshadowed?"

"Nope. Just curious. You spent so much time listening to us blather on about it, wondering how it feels to have one of your own."

"I like it. I really like it. Without it, I'm just a pretty numbers wonk. With it, I'm terrifying."

He snorts, amused. "You are more than terrifying without it."

"Then I'm the step beyond terrifying. 'Diane Anderson, IRS.' One guy wet his pants."

Gibbs laughs at that. They spend a pleasant half hour talking. Him listening mostly, enjoying it, because listening to Diane talk about something she loves is fun. She lights up, happy, passionate, and it's not like he can't sympathize with the high that comes from solving the puzzle and tracking the bad guys down.

"Should head back soon," she says after eating the last bite of the caramel apple pie they shared.

He doesn't need to check his watch to know they are already bordering on late. He's reaching for the check when she snatches it. His eyebrows rose in surprise.

"Not a date, Jethro. IRS will expense me for it, since I'm in the field today."

He nods and they head back toward NCIS.

* * *

She and Tim are finishing up the official who gets what draft when he thinks of his proposal:

"I'm not much for words.

"Most things are better left unsaid

"It'd be a lot easier if I could just pick you up, and we'd start running, and we'd never stop.

"Maybe I'll still do that. But before I do…" and he knelt down and whipped out the ring, and her face was soft, her eyes lit with pleasure and love and she grinned wide, and said, 'Yes."

Running. Take her and run, run away from the pain and who he was and who she was and just live in those minutes of sex and fighting and teasing.

Say goodbye to the past and their ties and… And it never works because you can't run away from yourself. You always come along for the race.

He never told her he loved her. Never said the words. Hid it behind the not talking thing. Wrote it a few times. Gave her some cards with it. But never said it, and right now, watching the late afternoon sun light her hair and eyes, he doesn't know if Fornell is right, doesn't know if he never said it because it was never true, or if he never said it because he couldn't bear to admit it was.

They're still talking through the final settlement of who'd be charged with what and by whom, and what they'd be taking to their individual prosecutors. He's got nothing to add to that, so he takes out his phone and sends a text to Rachel.

_What if I did love her?_

A minute later he gets back: _Would you rather be a rock who used women you didn't feel for to make yourself more comfortable, or would you rather be the guy who couldn't make it work because if it worked that might threaten what you had before?_

He's not sure if she expects a real answer right away, and even if she does he can't give one. They're wrapping up for today. So he sends back a quick: _Thanks. Thinking._

As Diane and Fornell head off, bickering gently with each other, Tim says to him, "Have a good day?"

He shrugs.

"Fornell talked to me some before you and Diane got back from lunch. Whatever it is you're contemplating… Rachel or Diane… It's a bad idea."

"I don't need an intervention."

"And we're not having one. This is just me and you having a chat."

Gibbs glares, not hot, more of a back off look.

Tim raises his hands, peace gesture. "Just, you know, I've been so lonely that anyone who's even remotely interested in you starts to look good. No matter if they're good for you or not."

Gibbs nods at that.

"Gotta give this to Tony." He taps the folder with the agreement in it. "You want to come over for dinner?"

Gibbs shakes his head. "Got some thinking to do."

"Okay. See you tomorrow, then?"

"Yeah." Gibbs is in the process of stepping past Tim when he put his hand on Gibbs' shoulder and pulls him into a hug. Gibbs stands there, and lets himself be hugged, feeling kind of stupid, wondering exactly how much of what he was thinking was on his face today. When Tim lets go, he squints at him _What was that for?_

"Looked like you needed one. Besides, how long has it been since someone touched you? Saturday night? Friday? Whenever it was Abby hugged you last?"

Gibbs nods.

"You need to be touched. We all do. Took a damn long time for me to figure that out. Helps you make fewer stupid decisions."

"Think I'm about to make a stupid decision?"

"I hope you're not."

That gets another eye roll and a gentle ruffling of Tim's hair as Gibbs steps out of the conference room. "See ya tomorrow."


	24. Perfume

Somehow, after Molly was born, the occasional Saturday morning at the Farmers' Market got added to the things they did with the Palmers on a semi-regular basis. Maybe once, maybe twice a month. It depends a lot on caseload and how rammy the babies are. (Might have something to do with the Farmers' Market being open early on Saturdays and babies not grasping the concept of sleeping in on the weekend.)

And, while it's true that Tim's been aware of the fact that DC has a really awesome Farmers' Market, it wasn't the sort of thing he ever bothered with. But once it got added to the routine, he's come to look forward to seeing what will be there.

Since October 10th dawned absolutely glorious, bright blue sky, highs in the mid-sixties, leaves in full autumn fire, he was supremely unsurprised to see: _Farmers' Market? Half an hour? _Pop up on his phone from Jimmy.

And in half an hour, they were getting Kelly's car seat into Palmer's van, and another half hour after that they were strolling around, looking at the harvest, artisan crafts, and all sort of yummy things, feeling pretty relaxed and happy.

(Well, Tim and Abby are pretty relaxed. Kelly's just chilling in her stroller. Jimmy and Breena are kind of nervous. Molly objected vehemently to riding in her stroller, so she's on foot and wants to touch _everything_.)

But for the most part, they're just sort of ambling along, snagging things like apples, jars of heirloom popcorn, fresh breads, greens, mushrooms, talking with each other.

"What do you think of this?" Abby asks Tim.

Tim's not really paying attention. He's looking at a stall selling wind chimes, half-thinking maybe they should get some; the front porch is kind of bare-looking, half-pondering the fact that he still doesn't have an anniversary present for her, and both of them are getting closer and closer.

"Tim?"

"Huh?"

She thrusts her wrist under his nose. "What do you think of this?"

He inhales and _fucking hell, what is that?_

It's deep and rich and… and… he thinks it's sandalwood and vanilla and maybe jasmine or something floral and some sort of musk, maybe some leather and smoke, there's a tickle of something spicy in the back, and it's just… it's everything perfume is supposed to be. The ads always act like perfume is bottled sex and yeah, it's okay, and there are a lot of scents he likes, but that gotta grab the woman wearing it and eat her alive, nope, he's never felt that.

Not from a perfume. Not until now.

Which isn't to say that there aren't scents that get to him like that. But the kind of scent that grabs him by the balls and yells SEX at him usually is a sex scent. Her pussy, wet, _God yes!_, that hits him so hard. His saliva along with that. That's a scent that gets him hard. The way his hands smell after he's gone down on her, when they're wet with her cum, and his saliva, and usually some of his musk, too, that definitely gets to him, gets him so hard he'll ache. The way her face smells after she's gone down on him. That mix of his semen on her breath, sure that's usually a too little too late sort of thing, but it gets to him. His semen on her pussy. Also, generally, too little, too late, but for a second round, that one _really_ gets to him.

But whatever the hell it is they sell for three hundred dollars an ounce and stick in pretty blown glass bottles, not so much.

But this, whatever this is, on her arm, that's getting his attention in a _very_ good way. In a wanna-push-you-up-against-the-nearest-stationary-object-and-get-it-on-right-here-and-now sort of way. In an he's awfully glad he's not wearing his kilt sort of way.

He's probably staring at her with that hit over the head hasn't quite managed to come to yet look, because she smiles, giggles, and says, "So you like it?"

He nods. "Oh yeah."

"How much?" she asks with a saucy grin, licking her lips.

He steps closer to her and says very quietly, finger tips lightly stroking her thigh just below where her gray and navy plaid skirt ends, "If we were in a club, I'd already be balls deep in you. As it is, I'm counting the minutes to naptime."

That got another smile and a teasing kiss, as she cupped her hand on his cheek, holding her wrist just below his nose, and he inhaled deeply, again, then titled his head to kiss her wrist, biting gently where her pulse throbbed.

"The booth behind us." She tilts her head toward it. "It's called Thousand and One Nights. My purse is in the car. Buy it for me?"

"Yes!"

* * *

Finding the booth took about nine seconds. Finding the right scent took longer. There has to be at least one hundred different blends here, all of them with identical labels. But, fortunately they're alphabetical and it didn't take him long to find it among the Ts.

It's a tiny little amber bottle. "Five-fifty," says the girl behind the display. Like Abby, she's probably not as young as she looks, her eyes are just too adult for her blue-haired, teenager-ish aesthetic.

But the price is right. Really right. Hell, five-fifty, and he'll buy it out. He takes the other three bottles and hands the woman a fifty.

She just stares at him, shakes her head slowly, and hands him the fifty back. "Five hundred and fifty dollars."

He just looks (eyes on the verge of falling out of his head) at the bottle. It's the size of his thumb. According to the label there's only half an ounce of perfume in there. (He can hear Jimmy laughing behind him.)

"What's it made out of, gold?"

The lady at the booth looks amused at that. "Most of the ingredients actually cost more, per ounce, than gold does. And even if they didn't, the skill necessary to put them together to make something that smells like that is worth more than gold."

He hears the pride of ownership in her voice. "You make this?"

She nods. "I make all of them."

He smiles at her, hoping he didn't insult her with the gold crack. "You're right about that. That's beyond delicious." He puts the other three bottles back, very carefully, and gets his credit card out. "Don't suppose you ever have sales?"

"If you give me your email address, I'll put you on my mailing list. I do, on occasion, have sales."

He hands her one of his Thom Gemcity cards. (This didn't seem like anything he wanted going to his computer at NCIS.) She reads it and looks up at him, scrutinizing.

"How many twitter followers do you have?"

"I don't know. Let me check." He gets his phone out and looks, thinking that's a really bizarre question. "Forty-three thousand four hundred and twelve."

She thinks about that for a tenth of a second. "Mention it in a tweet and the second bottle's free."

And then her question made a whole lot of sense. Better advertising than any five hundred dollars could buy. "Done." He took a quick picture of the bottle, making sure the label, which had the name of the scent, the company, and their website on it, was clear, and then sent out: _Anniversary present for my love. _

She tucks the second bottle into a small, padded box, and put both of them in his bag. "Enjoy."

"I intend to."

She looks to Jimmy, who's just been standing slightly behind him, watching the exchange, smirking at Tim, until he realized Tim was actually going to buy it, and then looking stunned. "Anything I can help you with?"

"Got anything I don't need a second mortgage to afford?"

"You got forty thousand twitter followers?" she asks with a smile.

"If I had twitter, all six of my followers would follow him, too."

She smiles at Jimmy and points to the left side of the booth where there are even tinier vials. "Two point five milliliter vials. They all run less than fifty, and for most people that's about twenty or so applications. Or you can use it to scent a bottle of moisturizer, massage oil, shampoo or something like that."

"So you mean he's got enough for the rest of his wife's life?"

She nods. "Pretty much." Then looks at Tim, realizing how that may have sounded. "You can swap one for another scent if you want."

He shakes his head, holding one hand up. "I'm good with this."

"Okay. Store it in a cool, dark place. As long as it stays in that bottle it'll be fine, and that particular scent gets better with age. In about three years, it'll knock your socks off."

Given how he's reacting to it already, the idea of better is staggering. "Good to know."

* * *

Ten minutes later they're wandering back toward the girls. (Jimmy had gotten two little vials for Breena, both sweeter, more floral scents. Tim thinks of them as being 'pink' scents. They're pretty. He likes them. Doesn't have a visceral reaction on any level to them.)

"Can't believe you actually bought that," Jimmy says, smiling.

Tim shrugs. "Got an anniversary present now."

"And then some."

"Got two of them in one week, this should do."

"Two?" Jimmy's expression is curious. He knows one is coming up, but isn't sure what the other is.

"Second first date was the 23rd, wedding's the 1st."

"Good point."

"What'd you do for your first anniversary?"

Jimmy smirks a little at Tim, and shifts his eyes to Breena, about five stalls up sitting next to Abby on a bench, Molly in her lap. She's wearing a pretty maxi dress in pink and coral, and a white cardigan, very pregnant with his third child, sharing a muffin with his first child, and that smirk morphed into a genuine smile. "Made Molly. Maybe. Probably. Like to think we did, you know?"

Tim smiles at that, nodding, he knows. Then Jimmy looks at him, does a bit of quick math, remembers one of his pre-wedding conversations with Tim, and says, "Same thing you did, too."

"Probably. Technically that was our second anniversary. I missed the first, thought it was a week later than it was."

"Oops. Think you may have made up for it this year."

"Maybe. So besides baby-making sex, you guys do anything?"

"Dinner, movie, ate the top of the cake we missed because we spent our wedding day in the hospital waiting to hear if Ducky was going to live, checking our phones every ten second to see who they'd found at NCIS and if they were all right."

Tim sighs. "I forgot how exciting your wedding day was."

Jimmy rolls his eyes. "Try traumatic."

"Yeah."

"Puts for better or worse in context."

Tim nods. By that point they were back to the girls. Abby's smiling up at him, looking excited. "You get it?"

He takes the little box out and shakes it (gently) at her. "I _really_ hope you like this."

She looks mildly confused by that, and he shakes his head, smiling.

"I get any treats?" Breena asks.

Jimmy smiles at her, looking satisfied. "Maybe. Did you want a treat?"

"When don't I want treats?"

"Treats!" Molly says, excited.

"You've already got one," Breena tells her daughter, breaking off another piece of the muffin and giving it to her.

Jimmy sits next to her on the bench. "Close your eyes."

Breena did, smiling.

"Okay, this one." He opens one of the vials, wafting it under her nose. "Or this one?" Then he repeats it with the second one. (Abby leans over, sniffing both as well, nodding at Jimmy, giving him a thumbs up, approving of his choices. He nods at her, pleased.)

Breena's grinning. "They're both great. How about the second one?"

Jimmy covers the top with his forefinger, flicks it upside down, letting the fluid touch his skin, and then gently drags his forefinger down her throat, kissing the other side, and then kissing the top of Molly's head.

"Does Mommy smell good?" he asks his daughter while capping the vial, as Breena rubs her wrist against her throat, and then against her other wrist.

Molly snuggles in close, inhaling loudly, and nods.

And Tim is noticing, able to smell it on her, that before by "pink" he meant flowers, cotton candy, and teddy bears. Now he's thinking flushed skin, wet lips, and hard nipples, "pink." In the bottle it smelled innocent. Nice. Pleasant. Not even remotely sexy.

On Breena, like the scent Abby picked, it's sex in a bottle.

Whatever the hell it is that woman does, it's worth a grand an ounce.

* * *

The car ride home is interesting. Kelly's feeding schedule means they needed to rearrange the seating. Usually if both of their families go out, Jimmy and Breena'll take the front, the girls go in the middle row, and he and Abby hang out in the back. But Kelly wants to eat, and she can't feed herself, so Jimmy's driving, Breena's in the front next to him, and Abby's in the back row with Molly. He's in the middle row, feeding Kelly her bottle.

But, in the middle, twisted toward Kelly, he can easily see both of the girls, and he can definitely smell both of them, too.

Like the women, each scent is very different, but they both hit him hard, both appeal deeply to him. The longer they wear the scents the more they shift, blend into the woman, but amplify her own unique sensuality. Floral and sweet are still there on Breena, innocence is there, too, maybe. Debauched virgin, that's the words that come to mind, pink roses and eagerly pulling the bride's panties off. And Abby's scent is still warm and sensuous, spicy, exotic, dark, making him think of darkly painted eyes, silky veils, tied wrists, and hidden sex in verdant, wet, blooming, walled gardens.

The last time he was this turned on by both of them together was the tail end of that dry spell before Kelly was born. When they were sitting on the sofa together, and there was just lots of beautiful woman in front of him looking all soft and pregnant and sexy.

And breathing in both scents, watching Breena in coral and pink and white, long flowing blonde hair, very round breasts and tummy, all sensuous, pregnant curves, and Abby in thigh high socks, a short plaid skirt, relaxed gray sweater with a wide collar slipping off her shoulder, and short , sassy blonde/pink hair, he can honestly say that he is deeply grateful that it's not going to me more than an hour until he gets laid.

The girls are chattering away, smiling, having what looks to be a great time. He's quiet, torn between keeping the tip of the bottle in Kelly's mouth and the x-rated fantasies flying through his mind. He's vaguely aware of the fact that Jimmy's not saying much either, and he half-wonders if the way the girls smell is hitting Jimmy as hard as it's hitting him.

* * *

Abby's putting the groceries away when he gets downstairs from putting Kelly down. They don't have all that long, half an hour tops, twenty minutes, realistically, before she wakes up and wants to eat again.

DC has an awesome Farmers' Market, and everyone and their cousin agrees with that. By the time they got free of traffic a good hour and twenty minutes had gone by.

So, now, home, baby down, it is indeed naptime, and Abby still smells like walking sex.

Delicious, sultry, hot, exotic sex bopping around the kitchen, (she's got music on, pretty loud) putting groceries away.

"She go down okay?" Abby asks without looking at him, pulling a bunch of broccoli out of one of their bags. They've had occasional issues with Kelly not transferring well between her car seat and the crib.

He nods, steps right up behind her, pulling her flush against him, his hands on her hips, and nuzzles her throat and ear. He nibbles gently before sucking her earlobe. "For future reference, wearing this scent means 'Fuck me right here and now, I don't care if the neighbors are watching or not!'"

She squirms against him, as he takes the broccoli out of her hand and tosses it toward the counter. (Didn't actually hit the counter, ended up on the floor.)

"You're saying I shouldn't wear it outside of our bedroom?" Her hands stroke up his sides, curl around his neck, and then run through his hair.

"Depends on how much you want our neighbors to know about us," he says, wet and hot against her ear has his hands slide under her sweater, gently cupping her breasts.

"Uh huh." She grinds into him, rubbing her ass against his erection, and he groans quietly. "And what if I wear it to work?"

That gets another groan as several images go spinning through his mind. His left hand settles on the back of her neck, stroking lightly with his nails, getting a sharp inhale and goosebumps out of her, then grasping firmly, as he pushes her to the counter, bending her over it.

"Unless you want Corwin to walk in on this." He flips her skirt up, kneeling to kiss her through her panties, hot breath meeting moist cotton, then hooks his finger in the crotch, and pulls them down in one swift move. He gets them off her left foot, and lifts her leg, so her knee and thigh are also on the counter, spreading her wide open, while kissing his way up her right leg. "I wouldn't suggest it."

She groans as his tongue finds her clit, arching back against him. "You'd just have to… oh fuck…" His teeth graze over her clit. "Go fast… wouldn't want… God…" She shudders as he sucks gently, one finger stroking over her gspot. "That to happen."

He stands up, popping the button on his fly, unzipping quickly, and pushing his jeans and boxers down. "Fast?" It slurs into a long groan as he thrusts into her, hard, fast, deep.

"Yeah!"

She's touching herself, and he's rocking into her as quickly as he can. This isn't about spinning their orgasms out or finesse. This is desire so sharp it has to be acted on at once. This is need burned into quivering strokes and half-moaned grunts.

It's not pretty at all, just hard, sloppy fucking, his hands gripping her ass, as he slaps against her in hard, solid thrusts, one of her hands steadying herself on the counter, the other rubbing fast on her clit, and both of them loving every second of it.

Doesn't take long before both of them are crying out, bodies jerking, quivering in blissful release.

Took even less time after that for both of them to tense and look over at the sound of the sliding glass door opening followed by Jimmy saying, "Hey, we got one—" Which is when Jimmy actually looked over and sees what they were up to. "Oh shit! Sorry… um…" He grabs one of the bags off the kitchen table. "Bye." And sprints out of there.

Tim's head drops to Abby's shoulder and they both giggle as they hear Jimmy's car pull out of their driveway.

* * *

While it's true there are a lot of things Breena likes about the latter months of being pregnant, constantly craving salty snacks is not one of them.

But with twoish months to go, she's well into the MUST HAVE SALT, SALT, ALL SALT ALL THE TIME, SALT! phase of her pregnancy.

And, the Farmers Market was kind enough to provide her with many wonderful options for dealing with this particular craving.

As they pull out of Tim and Abby's neighborhood, heading toward their own, she's really hankering for the home cured olives they'd picked up. For some reason they sound unimaginably good right now, and she really, _really_ needs them.

But she can't find them. All three of their bags are in the space between the front seats, and she's looked through the first two, no olives, and the third… still no olives.

Of course, the reason there are no olives in the third bag is that it belongs to Tim and Abby.

"They've got one of our bags."

Jimmy sort of shrugs at that. He's having enough difficulty trying to focus on the road and not how Breena smells, or the fact that her dress is gloriously low cut and he can see the tops of both breasts, and how much he really wants to be touching them right now.

Given that, he is not feeling a burning need for olives right this second.

But, in that he is a veteran pregnant daddy, he feels the flavor of the silence that follows his shrug, and looks at his wife. Okay, looks at her face, he's been looking at her, as much as he can, without crashing the car. "You want us to turn around and go get it? Or is tomorrow at breakfast soon enough?"

"Now!"

He nods. "Now it is." And runs them through a u-turn at the first intersection he sees where it's legal. Minutes later, he pulls back into Tim and Abby's driveway, grabs the bag that isn't his, and heads toward their back porch.

He can see the grocery bags on the kitchen table through the sliding glass door, and yes, one of them is his. Since Tim and Abby have a no knock policy, he opens the door, heading toward the table, saying, "Hey, we got—" which is when his eyes slide to the right, and see what is happening in the part of the kitchen not visible from the sliding glass doors. "Oh shit! Sorry!" he grabs his bag, fast, drops theirs, "Bye," and runs back out, blushing furiously.

Breena looks at him curiously when he gets back into the car, blushing and giggling.

He gets out, "They were busy."

She stares at him for a second, then figures out what busy means, and starts to laugh, too.

Jimmy holds up the bag. "Busy or not. I got you your olives."

"Good husband!" She takes the bag from him, leans over to kiss him, smiles, and says, (while opening the jar) "Hoping for some busy time when Molly goes down?"

Jimmy nods, kisses her shoulder, looks her over, from head to toes, puts the car into reverse. "God, yes."

She smiles brilliantly at him, and gently licks the juice off the olive between her fingers, making sure he sees her tongue slipping soft and wet over the round tip of the fruit.

He closes his eyes, grits his teeth, and puts the car in reverse, trying to focus on driving. "You're killing me, you know that? Literally, dead."

"Yeah, but you love it."

"I do."


	25. Goodbye

"It's tomorrow, isn't it?" Rachel asks as they're wrapping up the session.

"Yeah." He doesn't need clarification that they're talking about his wedding anniversary. Only one big thing happening tomorrow, and the advent of yet another Tuesday isn't it.

"What are you going to do?"

"Don't know."

She doesn't believe that, but his evasion has her interested. "What do you usually do?"

He shrugs at that. It's been a while since he hasn't wanted to answer her questions but this one's… not so much personal, though it is, it's more that he'd prefer she didn't think he's gone fully bonkers.

But she's learning his different looks and silences, and knows that this is something he wants to say, but hasn't worked himself up to yet, so she pokes a little further. "Don't have a usual, or don't want to tell me?"

He half-smiles, sips his coffee. "I've got a usual. Sounds crazy."

"You're already talking to a shrink," Rachel says with a gentle smile.

"It's straight jacket crazy."

She raises one eyebrow. "I doubt that intensely. No one wraps you in a straight jacket unless you're a danger to yourself or others. Are you going to do anything dangerous tomorrow? More so than usual." After all, he's a cop, a day at the office might be awfully dangerous.

"No." He shakes his head. "We got married a bit before sunset, and… usually, around then, I see her. We talk."

Rachel's considerably less surprised by that than he was expecting her to be. "Does it happen when you aren't alone?"

He tries to remember. He doesn't take the day off, but he also does his best to be home by sunset. Hasn't always worked, but it's probably been a while since it didn't. "I usually am, but if not, then no, it doesn't happen. She waits until I'm on my own."

"What do you talk about?"

"Stupid stuff?" He's not sure how to characterize what they talk about. But it's not… important… on any real level. Last year he told her about Tim and Abby's wedding. She liked the idea of him dressed up in the morning suit, and really liked him giving away the bride.

"The weather?"

"Nah. Not that stupid. Just… stuff. Whatever's going on. The kind of things you store up over a day or so to tell your spouse. Dinnertime talk. Always wraps the same. I tell her I miss her. She tells me to move on. That we love each other." There's a sad smile on his face. "Just stupid, everyday stuff."

"Talk about Kelly?"

"No." They don't. And he doesn't know if that's because it'll break the illusion in his mind of Shannon, prove she's not really there, or if it'll just make him too sad.

"Do you see Kelly, too?"

"Rarely. Sometimes on the anniversary of their death. Sometimes when I've been close to dead." He watches Rachel for another moment. "Why don't you think that's insane?"

"Jethro, one of the exercises we often have clients do is talk to people who aren't there. Say the things they need to say. That you're doing it on your own isn't a problem."

"I'm telling you I see ghosts. That's not a problem?"

She flashes him a _get over yourself_ look. "One of my clients is a wizard. Full on magic. Summons angels, likes to talk to them about the secrets of the universe. And you know what, I am completely indifferent to the truth value of his magical skills or the existence of his angels because that's one of the aspects of his life that's functioning and makes him happy. And as long as your ghosts are also trying to point you in a healthy direction, like Shannon encouraging you to move on, I have no trouble with you chatting with them. Ghosts in and of themselves aren't a problem. Ghosts encouraging you to do stupid things, that's a problem. Anything like that happening?"

"No."

"Then enjoy your visit with Shannon."

"That my homework?"

"Yes." And he can tell, by her smile, that like with enjoying some time with Diane, she expects this to take him deeper than just a pleasant evening.

* * *

"How are you going to get what you need if you can't let go?" "It's time, Gibbs." "You need to let go." "You can't get what you need if you're still clinging onto me."

She's said it a lot of different ways, lot of different times. At least every year for the last five years. Said it to him when he was with Hollis. He doesn't think she said it before then, but that's at least ten years now.

"It's time, Gibbs." He's not sure if that's her, or if he's saying it to himself. Either way, when they quit work, he shakes his head at Tim, who invited him over for dinner, gets into his truck, and begins to drive away from his home.

* * *

He hasn't been back here in years.

They aren't here. Not really. Names on a stone and bones don't matter, not in any real sense, but he doesn't have a better place to go in mind, so this will do.

He sits down, back against the tombstone Shannon and Kelly share. There's one empty space on it, for him, and sooner or later, and these days he's gotten to the point where he's consistently sure it'll be later, and more importantly, he's also hoping it will be later, Tim, Tony, and Jimmy will carry him here and lay him to rest with his girls.

He feels her before he sees her.

That's always been true. Was true the first time he saw her. There was just a sense that something, someone earth-shakingly important was nearby, and it drew his eyes, made him look.

He saw the red hair, fine build, and warm smile and fell in love before he even knew her name.

Her hand lands on his shoulder, and he grasps it, squeezing gently, not saying anything while she sits beside him.

"Been a long time since you've come here," Shannon says to him, letting his hand go and resting her head against his shoulder.

"Yep."

"Don't know if I like you coming here to remember us. Home is better, or the beach, or somewhere we were together."

He nods and sighs.

The sun is setting and it's starting to get cold. He points to the left, where a scarlet maple filters the sunset, the reason he picked here. "This time thirty-six years ago you were standing in front of a tree like that, getting your picture taken."

"Oh." She looks over at it. This one is bigger, one of many trees, not a lone ornamental in the churchyard. "Why here, why not the church in Stillwater?"

"They remodeled in 2006. The tree's gone. So's the church, really. It's glass and steel now."

"Blech." She sticks out her tongue, and then smiles at him.

That pulls a smile out of him. Emanuel Episcopal Church had been made of the local stone. Quarried less than five miles from the site. It was old, always a little damp and cold, no matter how hot it got outside, the gray granite slowly going black and greenish with time. It built it almost two hundred years. But it was old, and damp, and cold, and growing black mold, and didn't attract new young people, and stone was hard to renovate so that it met with the OSHA codes, so they ripped it down and built it up new and shiny.

She takes his left hand in hers and strokes his wedding ring. "Putting this on you was one of the happiest moments of my life."

"Mine, too."

"But it's time to take it off. You've spent twice as long mourning me as you did married to me."

"I know." And he does. He feels the weight of those years very intensely right now.

"And this last year, you've done a good job getting yourself right. You're finally letting the anger go and filling up that hole with love."

He's looking at her fingers stroking his. "I miss you."

"I know." She's staring him in the eyes, her expression soft, tinged with sorrow.

"I'm trying." He smiles sadly at her, and she strokes his face, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his lips.

"I know that, too. And you're succeeding." Her face is earnest and encouraging. "You were meant to be a family man. Being a dad and granddad, it's good for you."

"Yeah, it is."

Shannon shifts around so she was kneeling on the ground in front of him, between his outstretched legs. She holds both of his hands in hers, and stares into his eyes.

"You were meant to be something else, too."

He nods, knowing that the heart of the family is husband and wife.

"All I ever wanted was for you to be happy, Gibbs."

"I know. It's all I ever wanted for you, too."

She squeezes his hands. "You made me so happy. And you can make me happier. You're ready; it's time to move on."

He cups her face in his hands. "How can I be ready for this?"

"Because you are. Because it's time." She shakes her head. "It's more than time. Because the hate and the anger and the guilt are almost gone, you just have to let them go. Because I want you to remember me and smile, not cry. Because I want to stop being your pain and go back to being your joy." There are tears streaming down her face as she kisses the ball of his thumb.

"You are."

"Not yet. But I will be."

Gibbs slips the knife he always carries off of his belt, and digs a shallow hole over Shannon's grave, then places the ring in it. She smiles, still crying, as he does it, helping him replace the dirt and grass over his wedding band.

"Will I see you again?" He doesn't wipe away the tears that are streaming down his face.

She shakes her head. "Not for a good long time. Got a lot of life left in you, Gibbs, you gotta go live it."

He's quiet, looking at the hole, feeling the lack of her very intensely.

"Gibbs…" He feels both of her hands on his shoulders. She's standing behind him, and he turns to look up at her. "I've never had any problem with sharing you. I shared you with the Marines. I shared your love with Kelly. One of these days, you'll bring another woman here and you'll tell her about me, and it will be okay. You'll love her, and she'll love you, and it will be okay."

He nods, unable to speak.

Shannon bends down, kisses his forehead, and vanishes.

He spends a long time staring at the darkening sky, crying for what was lost, fearing what is new, but when he stands, he feels purged of anger, of guilt, and ready to go on.

* * *

It's well after dark when he gets home, and like with burying the ring, he knows what he needs to do.

He goes upstairs, takes his mattress and box spring off the bed, and begins to take it apart. Carefully, slowly, he knows he'll save the wood. Won't use all of it, and he'll redesign, but at least some of the new bed will be made with this wood. The main support structures, probably. The big beams, the legs. That seems fitting to him.

His fingers linger on the oak, drift along it.

It'll never really be goodbye. Shannon and Kelly were so much of his life, so much of who he was and who he is, and that will never change. They're the bedrock foundation of Gibbs.

But it's time to build something new on that foundation.

It takes an hour for him to get it completely disassembled and then all of the pieces down to the basement.

And from there he spends the rest of the night sketching, working on a new bed, something that remembers who he was, honors it, but isn't trapped by it.

* * *

In the morning, there's no call out, another paperwork day. He can feel all four of his teammates staring at his hand, seeing the missing ring. He shakes his head. He'll tell them about it, explain, sooner or later, but not yet.

Right now, this needs to be just his.

And right now, they aren't pressing him on it, which he appreciates.


	26. October 23, 2015

At 11:23 on October 23, 2012 McGee and Abby were making love for the first time in a little less than a decade.

They were in her apartment, on the floor, right in front of the front door, having a _very_ good time.

* * *

At 11:23 on October 23, 2013 Tim and Abby were sitting in his car, pulled over on the side of an empty road in Kansas, listening to the song Abby had picked for Tim to celebrate the anniversary he thought was the next week.

She snuggled in his lap as they listened to the music, cold fall air whirling around them, as stars undimmed by the lights of man gleamed overhead.

* * *

At 11:23 on October 23, 2014 the soon to be Mr. and Mrs. McGee were in bed, just having finished making love in their new home for the first time. He was spooned up behind her, hand on her belly, both of them wondering if they had just made a baby.

* * *

And, at 11: 23 on October 23, 2015 Mom was nursing an intensely fussy baby girl while Dad googled ear infections, hoping there was something they could do to make her more comfortable because, with the exception of when Kelly has Abby's breast in her mouth, she's screaming bloody murder and all the baby Tylenol in the world does not seem to be helping.

At all.

And while it is true that if you were to ask either of them if this was how they had hoped to celebrate their third anniversary, the answer would be no, that this is, at its heart, the essence of love.

They are both exhausted, dark rings under their eyes (Kelly was up all last night and all day), crabby, Abby is god awful sore, wanting to wince every time Kelly sucks because she's been nursing for close to an hour and a half now, and no one's nipples were designed to take that, but they are still working together, still supporting one another, and still trying to comfort the person their love made.

And yes, there is sarcasm and snarkiness here, and short tempers, but when Abby can't take another suck, she hands Kelly to Tim, and he takes her in his arms gently, letting her suck on his finger. (She's less than thrilled about that, but she still seems to prefer it to the pacifier.) He kicks back the recliner sofa, props Kelly on his stomach and chest, letting her suck away, and Abby snuggles into him, and both of them catch a few minutes of sleep while Kelly chews on her Daddy's finger.

Eight minutes later, when Jimmy texted them back with _Baby Orajel, could be early teething or sore throat to go with the ear infection_, they were overjoyed to try it, and see Kelly fall into an almost immediate sleep.

So, for their third anniversary, the now married, now parents, now Mr. and Mrs. McGee, got to sleep, both of them, for a solid three and a half hours.

And by that point, that was all the celebration either of them wanted.

* * *

A/N: Just a short one today. More tomorrow/next day. Passed the million word mark last week. Lots more to come!


	27. Pittsburgh Rare

He supposes it's something of a record. Almost five full days. He took the ring off on Tuesday. They'd all seen it by Wednesday. They saw his look and didn't press.

And kept not pressing.

But, with the little glance he sees Ziva shoot to Tim and Jimmy as the three of them head to the men's locker room after bootcamp, he's got a pretty good sense that not pressing is about to end.

* * *

Double teamed by Tim and Jimmy is both frustrating and impressive. Impressive because they're handling it well. Frustrating because it's annoying as hell to have two guys nattering away with each other, very much _not_ asking you about what happened so that you took your wedding ring off while talking about wedding anniversaries (Tim's is next week, and the party that acted as Jimmy and Breena's wedding was the second week of November.) and being married and all of that jazz.

But they aren't actually asking. They're just talking to each other. Slowly. With lots of looks at him and breaks in the conversation where, should he so desire, he could, add some information of his own.

"Doing anything special on Sunday?" Jimmy asks Tim, looking at Jethro, and both of them pause, leaving an opening for Gibbs, but he doesn't say anything, so Tim responds. And they just keep doing it.

Finally, having done it all through getting stripped off and their showers, without any useful results, Tim opened his locker, pulled out his boxers, and turns to Gibbs and says, "So, you want us to keep doing this? Cause we can keep it up until you get home, and then we'll wander down into your basement with you, drink your booze, and just keep doing it."

"All three of the girls have deputized us to do this. We've been told not to come home until we've gotten confirmation that you are at least okay," Jimmy adds, opening his locker.

"I'm fine," Jethro says, pulling his briefs out of his locker.

Tim and Jimmy look at each other, roll their eyes, and then they look back at Gibbs.

"What exactly do you think is going to happen to me if I go home and tell Abby, 'He says he's fine?'"

"Breena's not buying that either," Jimmy says, shaking his head.

"And really, just because she won't jump down your throat about it, does not mean Ziva will be cool. Our ninja will be displeased and take it out on us next week."

"You won't be here next week. And I won't either," Gibbs reminds them. Sunday is Tim's anniversary, and Gibbs will be babysitting. Though, last he checked, Tim thought everything was starting up well after bootcamp ended.

"I am not going one on one against her if I have failed to have gotten the information she wants. So, shall we keep chattering away, waiting for you to volunteer the information, or do we go out, get some drinks, and just talk?" Jimmy wraps with.

"Girls don't expect us home until later. Dinner's on me. Whatever you want." Tim says as he buttons his jeans.

"_You_ should be getting home. Abby doesn't need to be spending all day alone with a sick baby."

Tim shakes his head, reaching for his shirt. "Nope. Not getting out of it that easy. We already had that conversation. Ziva and Tony are heading over to my place after she gets dressed. Abby's getting some down time. They're getting some babysitting practice. We're interrogating you for details." Tim smiles.

Gibbs grits his teeth and sighs, pulling his t-shirt over his head. The downside of a family full of cops is that none of them are good with just letting mysteries be, and they've got the planning skills to dig deep and find out what's going on.

"Fine. But you two are going to be useful."

"We're trying to be," Jimmy adds, zipping his fly.

"Useful to me."

"That's what he meant."

* * *

For the most part, woodworking is soothing for Gibbs. He likes the whole thing: the tactile experience, the feel, smell, and sound of metal shaping wood. The repetitive, yet focusing, motions. Put that all together and it's a very good place for him.

Stripping the finish off of wood on the other hand… Not his idea of fun at all. Dousing wood in nasty smelling chemicals that you have to keep yourself covered head to toe to prevent it from touching your skin does not make his day.

So, if the wonder twins want to pick his brain, they can also strip his wood.

* * *

"Is that you bed?" Tim asks, very surprised at what they saw when they got into the basement.

Gibbs nods.

Jimmy steps closer to the pile of beams laid out between two sawhorses. "You took off your ring and disassembled your bed?" Taking of the ring makes a certain amount of sense to Jimmy, the bed is leaving him boggled.

Gibbs nods again, and Tim adds, "It's the bed he built her."

"Oh."

Gibbs tilts his head toward his workbench. There's a sketch of a new bed on it. Like the rest of Gibbs stuff, it's fairly restrained. Like the original, it's mostly straight edges and square corners, but there's more detail work here, showing how he's grown as a woodworker in 36 years, beveled edges on the headboard, intricate legs, and when he finds the right piece of wood, he'll make his own veneer for the main part of the headboard.

He explains this to the guys, who are following along as well as two guys who know basically nothing about woodworking can. He wraps up with, "It's time to rebuild."

Both of them nod. They may not have gotten what precisely a hidden dovetail was, let alone how Gibbs was going to make them, but rebuilding is a concept they both understand.

"What do you want us to do?" Jimmy asks.

He picks up the bottle of solvent and tosses gloves at them. "Gotta get the finish off of these."

They're nodding along, gloving up, getting ready for this when Gibbs opened the bottle and Tim's lungs decided that they weren't going to play along.

"I'm on dinner," Tim says with a wheeze.

The other two stare at him.

"Can't do this," he says, heading up the stairs. "Abby doesn't need a sick kid and husband at home. Stay down here much longer and I'll have a full on asthma attack."

Jimmy and Gibbs nod at him, and he heads up.

* * *

Jimmy surprises Gibbs by not saying much of anything. He's just steadily working away on the wood, dabbing on the solvent the way he showed him.

"Thought you guys were supposed to be cross-examining me."

"Tim told me it was your anniversary. You took your ring off. You're rebuilding the bed you built her. I tell the girls that, they'll know you're okay. That you're doing something healthy with your grief. Don't need to press more than that. Though, if you want to talk…" Jimmy gestures to indicate his ears work just fine.

Gibbs doesn't say much. They keep working. A few more minutes pass and Jimmy says, "I've been thinking about this… How to work with someone who isn't Ducky. I know it's not as soon as you heading off, but one day he won't be down there anymore. It'll be me and whoever I hire."

"Got your own stories."

"Not sure I want to spend all day telling them. Not sure I want just quiet, either. I think part of why he talks all the time is to help fill the room. Too easy to just blend in with the dead if it's just silent. A voice, even your own, helps keep your mind on life."

Gibbs tilts his head, adding more solvent to his rag; he can understand that. "His mom told stories. Knew everything about everything, and she told them all the time. Used to say they were a clan of Bards and historians. They told the tales that made men immortal."

"You knew her before she started to slip away?"

He shakes his head. "Met her four-five times. And the last few times she didn't remember who I was from time to time. Remember Ducky talking about her."

"Keeping the stories alive. I guess that'll pass down to Tim."

"You've got stories, too."

"He's better at telling them."

"Doesn't mean you can't."

Jimmy smiles at him, and Gibbs starts to wonder if he just talked himself into a trap. "Nope. It doesn't. Of course, just because your best friend tells the stories, doesn't mean we don't want to hear yours, too."

Gibbs shakes his head. "Smartass."

Jimmy smiles again, even brighter. "I try. So, are you okay? This really moving forward or a new layer of hiding?"

"Hope not." Gibbs pats the beam under his hand. "Was the cross piece, one of them," he points to the other one that matches it. "Gonna cut it in half, here." He gestures to the midpoint of the beam. "Then split it in quarters." He points to the legs of his current bed, which are propped against the wall. "Will cut two inch-thick sections and an eight-inch section out of those, take the corners off, and fit the quarters into them. Glue it into a solid block. The eight-inch piece'll get drilled for pegs, and that'll connect into the mattress supports. Those supports and the pegs'll be made from new wood."

"The memories and history are still there, but changed into something beautiful, something that supports a new life?" Jimmy looks at the pieces in front of him and starts backtracking. "Not that the old one wasn't beautiful before, but…"

"I got ya, Jimmy. And, yeah. It's easier to build it with my hands than say it."

"Where's the ring?"

"With her."

Jimmy touches Jon's diamond on his medic-alert bracelet. "Are you going to keep anything to mark it, her?"

"Sleep on this bed, live in this house, sailing the boat with her name. Probably enough, maybe too much."

"Naming the boat after her… That's you and her heading off into the sunset together?"

Gibbs nods. That was the idea.

"Maybe naming it after her, especially if you're thinking that you might want to sail off with someone else at some point, maybe that's not such a good plan."

That wasn't a thought that had hit Gibbs, but hearing it, there is a certain logic to it. "Been thinking of her as Shannon since before I started building her."

"Yep. But it's been… four years? Lot's changed since then, though, right?"

"True."

"Come January, you're not going to just vanish off the face of the planet, right?"

"Didn't intend to." Which is the closest he's come to admitting to any of them that that did used to be the plan.

"So, maybe she needs a new name." Jimmy can see Gibbs thinking about that, so he doesn't press. A few minutes later, as they flip the beam they're working on over, to get the underside wiped down with solvent, he does ask, "You find out what Franks was doing? Tony and Ziva aren't talking."

Gibbs nods.

"You're not talking, either."

"Can't tell you for the same reason he couldn't tell me."

"Oh, god. How illegal is it?"

_Very_ says Gibbs' expression.

"Drugs?"

"No."_ Quit asking._

And Jimmy may not, as he said, be psychic, but he can read that loud and clear. "Fine. Are you going to start doing it?"

Gibbs doesn't answer. He does glare slightly.

"I'll leave it alone."

A few seconds later, they hear Tim yell down, "Jimmy, where are your keys?"

"In my pocket." He puts his rag down, and strips off his gloves. "Why do you need them?"

"Got the fire started, thought it might be a good plan to buy some food to cook on it."

"Good point." He heads to the base of the stairs and tosses his keys up to Tim, who caught them tidily.

"Back in a bit. Fire's lit, got the grate closed." Jimmy nods, and a few minutes after that, they hear his car pull out of Gibbs' driveway.

Jimmy heads back, snaps the gloves back on, and says, "Okay, last thing about whatever it is Franks was up to, keep good notes if you want Tim, Tony, and I to pick it up in twenty year."

"Maybe it won't be necessary then."

Jimmy's eyebrows shoot up, and Gibbs shakes his head again, not willing to say more.

* * *

Gibbs is better at cowboy cookery than Tim. In that he's been doing it for decades, this is not much of a surprise.

So, yes the steaks are simultaneously somewhat less rare than Tim or Jimmy like (black around the edges) and a bit more rare than they like (quietly mooing in the middle), but they are steaks, and the fire's still burning, so getting the middle bit cooked more isn't that much of an issue, and he absolutely nailed the greens.

(Of course, the fact that Gibbs thinks this is the best spinach in the history of spinach may have something to do with the fact that it's kale and chard. Or possibly that Tim cooked them in lots of butter, garlic, and salt, and then added a little cider vinegar to them. Either way, this was the most enthusiastic they'd ever seen Gibbs about a vegetable.)

They're sitting near the fireplace. Tim and Jimmy close to the flames, trying to get their steaks a bit less rare. Gibbs is further back, sitting on the floor, leaning back against the sofa, happily eating away.

Jimmy's got a piece of steak on his fork, charred top and bottom, luke-warm, almost purple center. He's toasting it over the fire, trying to get it to rare without burning it any more. "So, is next week's bootcamp learning how to cook over a fire?"

Gibbs sniggers at that, chewing, looking like he's enjoying this quite a bit. "Don't like your steak black and blue?"

Neither of the guys know what that means.

"Pittsburgh rare?" Gibbs adds, seeing that means nothing to them, either. He stares at Jimmy, confused. "He grew up in California, so I know he doesn't get it. But you're from western PA, right?"

"I went to college there. Wasn't eating much steak then. Grew up in Wilmington, Delaware."

Gibbs nods at that, tucking it into his mental map of Jimmy. "Burn the hell out of it on a really high flame and keep the middle rare."

"People do this to steaks intentionally where you're from?"

Gibbs nods. "Douse 'em in melted butter first, stick 'em over a high flame, fwoosh. Black and blue."

"Really?" Tim had been feeling pretty embarrassed about the steaks. They'd been sizzling along, looking fine, smelling great. He went into the kitchen to start on the greens, and as they were cooking down nicely, he started to smell char and by the time he got them flipped they were black on the side closest to the flame.

"Mom made 'em like this. She said that the steelworkers would take cuts of beef to work, pop 'em on the cooling steel for a sec, flip 'em, and that was lunch."

Jimmy's staring at him, not buying it. "You sure that wasn't an accident? Sounds like the kind of story my mom would tell when she accidentally messed something up in the kitchen. Spaghetti's still crunchy in the middle, 'Oh, that's the way they eat it in Italy.' Spaghetti's cooked to soup, 'That's how they do it in France.'"

"Saying my mom couldn't cook?"

Tim's got _Danger! Back away! _all over his face.

"I'm sure she was a great cook. Just, you ever see Pittsburgh rare or black and blue anywhere else?"

Gibbs laughs. "She was a weird cook. She'd put chocolate sauce on apple pie or ketchup on scrambled eggs. Pittsburgh rare is a real thing, not like 'French' spaghetti soup."

"Ketchup on eggs?" Tim asks, that's not just weird to him, it's revolting.

"Uncle Ron came home from World War II and ate ketchup on everything. He'd put it on oatmeal if you let him. Sort of like how MREs all come with Tabasco. Everything came with ketchup then. She was seven when he came home, and idolized him, did everything he did, so for a while she put ketchup on everything, too. Ketchup on eggs, she liked."

Tim's shaking his head, eating a less raw piece of his steak.

"'French spaghetti soup' only happened once or twice. Most of the time dinner was okay. But she did like those god-awful pour canned mushroom soup on top of canned tuna, frozen peas, and noodles and bake for ten hours casseroles."

Both Tim and Gibbs wince at that.

"Jello salads," Gibbs says. "No dinner was complete without some sort of jello with all sorts of weird stuff floating in it. Orange jello with chunks of carrots, apples, and raisins. That was always part of Thanksgiving."

Jimmy and Tim look at each other. Tim says, "Doesn't sound too bad."

"The carrots and apples were hard and crunchy, size of a dime."

"Oh," Jimmy says.

"Red white and blue Jello for Fourth of July. Cherry and lime Jello for Christmas, eggnog jello on top. Pink and yellow and blue Jello eggs for Easter. Name a holiday, and we had Jello for it."

"Labor Day." Jimmy says.

"Whatever the pink stuff was with watermelon and strawberry chunks, Cool Whip on top."

"Your mom loved Jello."

"Yeah, she did."

"Baskin Robbins," Jimmy says. "We had one five blocks from our apartment. Friday nights in the summer, Mom'd make hot dogs on the little grill we had on the back patio." He looks at the steak on his plate. "Actually, they were usually cooked pretty close to this. Then we'd walk down to the Baskin Robbins and get ice cream. Summer break's ten weeks long, so one year, fourth grade, fifth, something like that, we decided we'd try all 31 flavors." Jimmy smiles at that. "Each get two scoops, and try all of each other's as well. Clark let us down, he kept getting the same four flavors, but we still made it."

"Tim?" Jethro asks. They've been talking about family food memories, but besides listening, he's not adding anything.

Tim shakes his head. "Wasn't a big deal for us. When I was little, it was mostly just me and Mom. So, sandwiches, take out, McDonald's playland some nights. By the time I was ten, Sarah was a baby, and we'd split cooking. Nothing special, just enough calories and vitamins to keep us going. Only time dinner was ever a big deal was when The Admiral was home, and I didn't cook those nights. Didn't eat much, either. Gran was a 'good, plain' cook, which was code for well-done everything cooked with salt and pepper and boiled veggies with butter or bacon. She could bake though. Good pound cakes and biscuits. Penny didn't learn to cook until she was in her sixties. She got back from traveling one time, and had all these ideas she wanted to show us. I remember that."

"Any of them good?" Jimmy asks.

"Probably. I was fourteen and lived on a diet of white bread peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, soda, microwave pizza, my own cooking, and fast food. Salt and pepper was the extent of my skills with seasoning. I remember being mildly horrified by anything she tried to spring on us. However, I had mastered spaghetti by then, and never served it as soup."

Jimmy snorts at that.

"How about Shannon, what was her special thing?" Tim asks.

Gibbs smiles, looking at the fireplace, and waits a beat or two, until they've got the kind of steaks he makes on there in mind. "Who'd you think taught me how to do that?"

"Wasn't the Marines?" Jimmy asks.

"Or Boy Scouts?" Tim adds. Even he got the cooking badge, so he's sure Gibbs had to have gotten it, too.

"No one gives a pile of Marines or Boy Scouts decent steaks. They'd kill 'em. Cook 'em like Jimmy's mom's hotdogs."

Jimmy's eyeballing Tim, the steaks sitting between them, Tim again. Tim pokes him in the knee with his foot.

"Shannon's family liked to camp. She and her mom believed that being miles away from a stove was no excuse for making a bad meal. She was even better with fish. When we lived in California, we'd spend long weekends at the beach, cook 'em less than a hundred feet from where we caught them. Doesn't matter what it is, catch it, gut it, cook it over a driftwood fire, finish it up with s'mores. That's gonna be a good night."

Jimmy nods along with that.

"Did that once, with my grandparents," Tim says. "Hadn't thought of it in years." He watches the fire, sorting through the memories, trying to place them. "Would have been little. Sarah wasn't with us, yet." He rubs his eyes, thinking more. "Dad and Pop caught the fish. Dad built the fire, really big and high, probably not great for cooking on but it looked awesome. Spent the day fishing and playing in the surf. Might have been clams… Are clams an east coast thing? I remember a big pot, so something must have gone in that pot. But we were with Gran and Pop, so that meant California, not the east coast." Neither of the other two answer, letting Tim talk. Both of them getting an idea of how young 'little' had to be if Tim was referring to his father as 'Dad.' "Built this huge sandcastle. Walls, ramparts, moats, more walls, towers… Surf got it eventually, but it had to work hard to get it. I don't remember eating the fish. Probably did, get yelled at for wasting food if you didn't eat it, and I don't remember yelling. I do remember the marshmallows." He smiles at that image. "Pop was holding me around the waist, making sure I didn't get too close to the fire, showing me how to keep rotating the marshmallow or it'd catch fire. Then my mom just stuck hers right into the flames, and up it went, she let it burn for a few seconds, blew it out, and popped it in her mouth, grinning at him, teasing him about how much better they were charred."

"And thus we learn how Tim learned to cook over an open flame."

Tim rolls his eyes at Jimmy. "That was a good night. And marshmallows do taste better gently browned with salty driftwood smoke."

Gibbs is nodding in agreement. "Three, four years, when they're all potty-trained and down to one nap a day we'll find a place on the coast and do that."

Jimmy smiles at him. "Already got a place. It's on the water. Four bedrooms. Don't even need to wait for them to get potty-trained, never have to be more than two hundred feet from a convenient changing table. Ed and Jeannie's place in the Outer Banks is ready and waiting for little girls to come and play. Ziva and Tony manage to not be really pregnant this summer, and we can head down."

"Remember what Leon said…" Tim adds.

Jimmy shrugs. "By this summer you'll run one department, I'll have another, Abby'll have a third, Tony and Ziva'll have the MCRT and we'll all have seconds in command. Won't be like the lab shuts down when Abby leaves, or MCRT can't investigate. Cybercrime'll go without you for a day or two. And yeah, I'd need to get up there pretty quick, if someone dies, but that's not as big a deal as having the investigative branch, the lab, and the morgue all shut down."

Tim nods, that's a pretty good point. Jimmy looks at Gibbs and asks, "You got more than one fishing pole?"

"I will by this summer."


	28. Forgive?

For as lovely as November 1st, 2014 was, November 1st 2015 was determined to be ugly. Lead gray clouds, a mixture of cold rain, light sleet, and mist (Abby calls it freezing ick.) was drifting sulkily from sky to ground.

The theoretical plan for the evening was dinner out. Short dinner out. Abby still nurses three times a day, and two of them are seven and ten, so they can't go out for too long, but a decent meal and some good conversation is certainly a possibility.

If all goes according to plan, and the weather stays the current 35ish degrees, Gibbs'll be there around seven, Kelly will eat, they'll go out on their first baby-free date since June.

* * *

"What are you doing?" Jimmy's voice on the other end of the phone.

"Nothing much. Just fed Kelly," Tim says.

"Good. I'm already on my way to your place. We're taking the girls to the mall."

Tim just stares at his phone for a second, wondering what the hell was going on with Jimmy. In that, among other things, he last saw Jimmy a hour ago when they were all leaving Ed and Jeannie's, he wasn't expecting to lay eyes on him again until tomorrow. "All right. And we have a burning need to go to the mall with the girls, why?"

"Because it's 36 degrees out and raining, Molly's climbing the walls, Breena wants a nap, and Abby wants you out of the house so she can get ready for tonight. Hence, we're going to the mall."

That seems like a fine reason to Tim. "Okay. I'll get Kelly suited up."

* * *

In general, Tim is not a fan of malls. At this point in his life, he'd say he's spent, maybe, but this could be an overestimate, four hours at a mall in the last ten years, not counting when he's had to be in one for a case or when he's eaten in a restaurant attached to one.

He's just not a mall guy. He wants something, and unless he needs it right now, he buys it online.

In general, Jimmy's not much of a mall guy, either. Though, between a significantly more extroverted personality, and the fact that just about every tenth store in a mall sells shoes, Jimmy does tend to have a better time in them than Tim does.

But, Jimmy is, in addition to not being much of a mall guy, a bit further along on the Dad curve than Tim is, and he has realized (namely because Breena told him) that at the Mall they have several areas covered in soft foam rubber designed for small people to run around on.

And he's in possession of a seriously rammy small person. A small person who, when not tearing around their house like a wild woman, is whining and fussing. A small person in desperate need of space to play hard and fast without driving her very pregnant, very uncomfortable, and very tired mama insane.

In that it is, as Jimmy previously noted, cold and raining, the park and his backyard is out.

So he's driving, Tim's in the passenger seat, the girls are in their car seats, and they are en route to the mall.

* * *

They're the only married men there. Okay, not the only married men, there have to be some other guys with wives somewhere in the mall, but the little area where the toddlers are running around shrieking, all the other guys are at least ten (and three of them look more than fifteen) years younger and none of them are wearing wedding bands.

It occurs to Tim that his demographic does not appear to hang out at malls.

But Molly's having a blast. Kelly's sitting on his lap, watching the other kids play. He and Jimmy were chatting about something, he doesn't remember what, when one of the grandmas (lots of them around) commented on how pretty their girls were, asked how old they were, standard questions.

And they know how this works, so they ask which one of the kids are hers, and about three minutes of polite conversation ensues.

Jimmy checks his watch. "This time last year, I was getting suited up for the wedding."

Tim nods. "Was already at the church."

"Hard to believe it's been a year."

"Yeah. Fast year." Tim smiles, looks at Kelly, kisses the top of her head. "Good year." Jimmy nods at that, his smile not nearly as bright, because for him it's been a much rougher year, and Tim nudges him with his shoulder. "Next year'll be even better."

That got a real smile out of Jimmy. "Yeah, it will."

"Excuse me," The Grandma asks, "I know this is… I was wondering, how did you find a surrogate? My son and his partner would like to be fathers and are thinking about it and…" She can see from the stunned look on Tim and Jimmy's face that they may have been talking about a wedding, it clearly wasn't a wedding to each other, and she starts backtracking fast. "Oh, God. I'm sorry. I heard you mention the wedding and… you've got one stroller and… and your girls look just like you, so you couldn't have adopted and… I'm so sorry."

Jimmy recovers first. "No problem. It's his anniversary. Mine's in May. My wife is eight months pregnant, so we already have the two baby stroller, so with it wet and cold out it was just easier to use the one stroller."

"Oh. I'm so sorry." She's cringing and looking horribly embarrassed.

"Really, not a problem," Tim says, wondering exactly what the protocol for something like this is, because, yeah, he'd prefer that people didn't think he was married to Jimmy. But at the same time, having a fit about it is just really uncomfortably homophobic, and the woman already indicated she had a gay son so… "Just, don't know anything about surrogacy. We both… um… did it the old fashioned way."

She nods, still looking embarrassed. "No. I guess not. Happy anniversary."

He nods back, a _really everything's all right_ smile on his face. "Thanks."

She looks away, watching her grandsons toddle about.

* * *

They are heading back to the car an hour later, after Molly had tired herself out and was ready for nap time, when Jimmy says, "That was a first."

"No one ever thought you were gay before?"

"I don't think so. Never got hit on by a guy before, if that's what you mean. Just… When did we get to the point where two married guys out with kids at the mall are assumed to be with each other?"

Tim shrugs.

"It's not like our rings are even close to matching." In that his is white gold and Tim's is mostly black titanium, not matching is something of an understatement.

"Did you notice we were the only married guys with kids there?" Tim asks.

"Yeah. That's weird, too. I mean… It's not like I'm one of those you've-got-to-be-married-to-have-kids-guys. Don't have any problems with Draga. But… I mean… _none_ of those guys were married to their kids' mom."

"Maybe the young ones don't wear rings?" Tim says with a shrug, fairly sure he's wrong. All the baby Sailors and Marines they run into with wives wear the ring.

"Maybe." Jimmy looks back at their girls. "I'd kind of like to know my grandkids' dad is going to stick around."

Tim looks at his ring and shrugs. "Ring's not magic. Can't make anyone stick around."

Jimmy catches that and realizes Tim's thinking of his dad. "Yeah. I know. But…"

"No. I get what you're saying. I never would have even noticed it before Kelly, and it's my anniversary so it's on my mind, but, yeah, I did check the other guys, and it did feel weird to see that none of them had a ring."

"That little voice, in the back of your head, sounds a lot like Gibbs, and you didn't even notice it was in there until you saw the guy with the two kids and the pregnant girlfriend, and it's yelling, 'Man up, you pussy, go marry that woman!'"

Tim laughs a little at that. "Wasn't quite those words, but yeah, something like that."

* * *

They were a few miles down the road when Jimmy asks, "So, how's talking to Wolf going?"

Tim shrugs. "It's going. Not like I'm experiencing any great revelations as to the nature of my past or character."

"I don't think that's how it's supposed to work. Feeling any less angry?"

"Yes, but how much of that was beating the shit out of Tony and how much of it is talking to Wolf, I don't know. He suggested that if I really was feeling calmer, less pissed, that maybe I should invite my mom and Ben for Kelly's christening."

That surprises Jimmy. Sure, they all wonder what's happening with Tim and his mom, but he hasn't been saying, and none of them have been asking, not wanting to intrude. But, if he's willing to talk about it, Jimmy wants to hear. "Do you want to do that?"

"I don't know. I've talked to her twice in the last month and it was… Okay. Actually, lot like Tony before the fight, really tentative and nervous, but maybe better than nothing."

"What's Abby think?"

"That if we do it, they shouldn't stay with us."

Jimmy nods emphatically at that. "I'll second that."

"She's also kind of nervous about how the rest of the family, and Gibbs in specific, would deal with her."

"Ohhh…" Jimmy winces like he's staring at a train wreck. The idea of Gibbs and Tim's mom in one room hadn't occurred to him, but now that it has, he's not seeing how that could be anything but trouble.

"Yeah. That makes things… complicated."

"I mean, if you tell him it matters to you, and you're trying to patch things up, I'm sure he'll support you…" Though Jimmy doesn't sound very certain about that.

"I know. In a he won't actually shoot her in the head or do anything out and out that he thinks would bug me, but it won't be warm or easy or…"

"Yeah." Jimmy nods. Gibbs isn't the poster child for warm or friendly when he's at his best. At his worst… defending one of his cubs… No… Jimmy doesn't think that'll be pleasant on any level.

They drive another mile.

"So… you going to do it?"

"I don't know. Part of me wants to see her. And she's never seen Kelly. And if she's going to be part of our lives, then the whole forgiveness thing would be part of that, right?"

"Probably."

"And Wolf seems to think that forgiving people is part of the whole not being mad all the time thing. Forgiving them or fully cutting ties. That this… in between, ignoring it until I can't anymore, blowing up at it, and then ignoring it again thing isn't good."

Jimmy stares at him and then says the thing you're not supposed to say. "Might be easier to cut ties…"

Tim shakes his head, staring at the ceiling. "I know." He smiles, very sad. "But she's my mom. And, it's stupid, but, I miss her, sometimes."

Jimmy squeezes his hand. "Whatever you're gonna do, I'm here."

"Thanks."

They drive a few more minutes, ending up in Tim's driveway. He looks back and sees both girls asleep. "You want to put her down with Kelly? Stick around, give Breena more quiet time?"

"Sure."

It takes a few minutes, but they get both girls settled in the nursery. Tim pokes his head into his bedroom and sees Abby getting a nap as well. He smiles at that, thinking it bodes well for staying up late tonight.

He heads down to the kitchen and grabs himself a cider. "You want something?"

Jimmy pokes around his fridge a bit, and grabs another one for himself. "This is good." They both settle on Tim's sofa, and Jimmy asks, "So, what else are you and Wolf talking about?"

Tim sighs, blowing out frustrated breath. "We've been talking about the difference between what happened with Tony and with my Mom. 'Cause I'm not angry at him anymore. And how he…" Tim stops for a second to collect his thoughts on that. "Tony put it all on the line, put his literal body into play, and let me scream, physically and metaphorically about how angry I was at him. Beating the shit out of him probably wasn't the best way to handle it, but… it worked.

"And I don't know if I can do that with her."

"Scream, not fight, right?" Jimmy says as he takes a sip.

"Yeah," Tim rolls his eyes a little. "I'm not getting into a fist fight with my sixty-two year old, slightly arthritic mom. But… with Tony, he basically said, 'I know you've got to get your own back… so do it.' But with her, what the hell is getting my own back? The one thing I want most, being able to consider my Dad a monster who acted alone, I can't do anymore."

"Nope. And I don't know what getting your own back would be. What'd Wolf say?"

"I'm supposed to be thinking about it, trying to decide how I'd like our relationship to work. At some point, I need to sit down with Sarah and Penny and talk to them, too. Because it's not just me."

"No, it's not. How are you guys handling your dad?"

"You know my part: completely out of my life. He visits Sarah when he's in town."

"She still has contact with him?"

"I'm not going to ask her to rip her dad, who didn't pull any shit on her, out of her life, because he was an ass to me."

"He was more than an ass to you. Not like he was just impolite."

"I know. But…" Tim rubs his forehead. "He's still her dad. Maybe he started overcompensating or something after they divorced, but she's got happy memories of learning how to ride a bike, and sailing, and fishing, and getting to go onto his ship and meet the sailors and…"

"Okay. I get it. Maybe after he lost you he decided it wasn't going to happen again?"

"Yeah, well, he could have tried not treating me like shit." Tim says with a self-depreciating smile. "That might have worked wonders. 'God, sorry I was a flaming asshole, Tim.' That would have gone a long way."

"Really?" Jimmy doesn't look like he's asking so much for himself, as to get Tim to think about that more.

Tim shrugs, probably not. That would have been a band aid on an amputation. "Would have been better than what actually happened."

"I guess."

"I called him, a year ago…" Jimmy's really surprised by that. "Didn't like my vows… That's not true, I didn't love them. They were so bound up in… in not being him. In having seen, lived this train wreck that was their marriage and knowing who and what I didn't want to be, I called, asked what he thought he was doing. I mean, how did it go _that _wrong? I needed a piece of the puzzle I didn't have. Only talked for like, five minutes, something like that. But, 'Hey Dad, I'm getting married tomorrow, gonna have a baby in the summer,' got nothing. Just disapproval that Abby was already pregnant. I mean, even if you didn't like the guy, you'd offer some congratulations on that, right?"

"I would."

"Yeah. Me, too. But from him, nope. And in that it didn't involve him cussing me out or insulting me, that was our best conversation in… God… Ever."

"I'm sorry, Tim."

"Yeah. Me, too. So, anyway, he and Sarah are fine. I haven't been brave enough to ask about it, what she might be doing with him about me, beyond telling her that I didn't expect her to cut him out of her life. Penny yelled at him a few times and when he wouldn't come to the realization that he'd done anything inappropriate, she stopped talking to him."

"She cut ties with her son?"

"Yeah. I… I don't know what to do with that, either. I know how bad the idea of losing Kelly hurts, and I don't want to be responsible for that for her."

Jimmy shakes his head at Tim. "I know one thing to do with that. Stop thinking it's your fault. He behaved in a way your grandmother felt was indefensible. She cut ties with him because you don't keep relationships with people who do things like that. None of that is your fault."

"I guess."

"Stop guessing. You know. Him being a psychopath is not your fault."

Tim smiled at him sadly. "But I don't know. Wish I did. Be easier if I did. He adores Sarah. She was able to be everything he ever wanted for her, and they get on fine. She could make him smile, so why not me?"

Jimmy slowly closed his eyes and opened them again, then put his cider on the coffee table and scooted closer, wrapping an arm around Tim. "It was never you."

Tim snorts, bitterly. "Be a lot easier to believe if he'd been a psychopath to both of us."

"It wasn't you."

"Yeah. That's what everyone but he and my mom say."

That last bit deflates Jimmy, feeling Tim's hurt from his mom having agreed with whatever it was his dad thought, even if she didn't want to use the same tactics. "What did your mom say?"

Another depreciating smile from Tim. "That they were afraid I was too soft. That I needed to be tougher or the world would beat the shit out of me. She's not saying that anymore. Now it's all, 'So, so sorry,' and walking on a tightrope, afraid to say something that'll scare me off. I have a feeling Penny ripped her a new asshole or six. But before she started double and triple thinking everything she said, that came out. I was too soft, too afraid, and needed to be tougher. And Sarah was fearless, she always was. I was twelve, she was three. I'm babysitting. She had one of those Big Wheel tricycles, and she'd take it to the top of the driveway and go down, full speed, straight toward the garage…"

"And you were babysitting when she crashed?" Jimmy knows where this story is going, but that doesn't make hearing it easier.

Tim nods. "Yep. One of the few times he got home before Mom did. She's screaming. There's blood all over the place. She'd split her lip…" And they both know, first and second hand, how a split lip bleeds like crazy. "I'm trying to get her cleaned up, and he comes in, takes one look around, orders me to my room. So up I go, but I can hear him talking about his brave little girl, and I can see him, half an hour later, zooming down the driveway with her, she's shrieking with laughter. Later, after she was asleep, he came to my room and chewed me out for an hour over how I was an irresponsible cunt incapable of keeping a three-year-old under control, and if I couldn't keep her safe, how was I ever going to be of any use to anyone else? How were other _men_ going to depend on me? How was I ever going to run a ship if I couldn't make a toddler obey my orders? And on and on and on and fucking on.

"I'd been taking care of her on and off, with help and without, since the day she came home from the hospital. I spent more hours alone with her that week than he had in her entire life at that point, but yeah, I was the irresponsible fuckwit who couldn't be entrusted with another life."

Jimmy's rubbing his shoulder, trying to be comforting. "You know, before Breena, I wasn't a church guy. But my family went, and I had some buddies in Sunday School. No one I was really close to, we didn't go to the same school, but there were guys I'd hang out with between the services."

Tim nods, he's familiar with how that worked. He had a few guys like that at his church, too.

"One of them was gay. He came out senior year. The second he turned eighteen, his parents booted him out of the house. And everyone at the church, the grown-ups at least, were all, 'You made the right decision. Can't have a kid like that hanging around. You've got to think of your younger kids,' all this bullshit that boiled down to if only Tom had acted different, if only he'd pulled it together and been the guy his parents wanted him to be, it'd have been all right.

"They were all sanctimonious assholes, Tim. One big circle-jerk of rabid homophobia. Tom couldn't have 'pulled it together.' He couldn't have made himself straight. And it was not his fault his parents and the people around him were scum. And it's not your fault you weren't Captain America or whatever the hell sort of super sailor your parents wanted. It is entirely their fault they couldn't look at the child you were and loved you like you were. And if Sarah was more what they were hoping for, well, Tom's little brother and sister were straight, and none of that changes that his parents and yours are assholes. It's on them, not you, not Tom. Them."

Jimmy smiles at him a little. "That's why it's a job, right? We make these people, and they're gonna be whoever it they are, and it's our job to love and shelter them and help them become the people _they_ want to be, not the people we want them to be."

Tim closes his eyes and leans his head on Jimmy's shoulder for a moment, seeking and taking comfort from his touch. Then takes a deep breath and sits up, away from Jimmy. "What do you think, should I see her again?"

"I think seeing her is going to hurt. But it may be pain you need to go through, like having a bad tooth pulled. I think not seeing and not making a firm decision as to if she's going to be in your life is putting that pain off. Tooth is still bad, it's still festering in there, and you've got to get it out. Wolf's right, ignoring it until you blow up is a bad plan. I think the only thing that's going to fix this on any long term sort of way is making that decision, cut her out or forgive her. And that… I don't know what the answer is to that."

They heard Kelly start to cry, and Tim got up, fast, going to grab her before there was any shot of waking Molly up, but as he headed up, he said to Jimmy, "Neither do I."


	29. The Boss

Book Four: The Boss

* * *

Tim gets into the office, sees that he's, like usual, in after Gibbs but before Tony and Ziva. He's not sure if Draga's in yet or not. There is a RedBull on his desk, but there's usually a RedBull on his desk. Could be fresh, could be yesterday's. He's not poking around to find out.

So, paperwork.

He sits down and fires up his computers.

Like always he hits his email first. Checks to see what's new or interesting or updated. As he's scanning through the list of new letters, he finds himself thinking of talking with Jimmy, and then later, over dinner, with Abby, (wasn't the most romantic meal ever, but probably something they needed to talk about. After dinner made up for it.) and hits the compose button.

It's quick, just a few words:

_Hey Mom,_

_Kelly's christening is on Sunday. There'll be a big family party after. I know it's last minute, but if you and Ben want to come up for it, we'd like you to._

_If you're free, dinner's at our place on Saturday, 5:30._

_Hope to see you then,_

_Tim._

And he hit the send button before he could think about it again.

* * *

He's filling out paperwork when his phone rings. That startles him. Yes, he has a phone on his desk, but it's probably been three years since he's given that number to anyone. If you want to get a hold of him, you call his cell phone.

That's even the number on his card now.

But the phone on his desk is ringing, and for a second there's a tinge of dread in his heart. Is his Mom calling him? Does she want to actually, physically _talk_?

But it's still ringing and the rest of his team is staring at it, so… "McGee."

"Agent McGee…" He identifies the voice of Vance's secretary and feels a wash of relief. "Director Vance would like to see you."

Oh. That sends a spark of flushed happy through him, only one thing Vance is likely to want to have a one on one chat with him in person about. "Okay. I'll be up in a few seconds."

He hangs up and feels all four of his teammates looking at him. He points up, and everyone nods, understanding what's about to happen.

Fifteen seconds later, he's standing in front of Valerie, and she tells him, "Go on in," so he does.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

"Yes." Vance looks up from his computer, stepping out from behind his desk. "Twenty minutes ago Jenner gave me his letter of resignation. Sixty days' notice." He offers Tim his hand, and Tim, smile breaking across his face, shakes. "Congratulations McGee, as of January 4, you'll be the newest NCIS Department Head."

There's a smile on Leon's face, too, but Leon's smile has some bite to it. "My understanding is that the techs down in Cybercrime are aware of Jenner's resignation. So, while it is true that you are not taking over for two more months, letting them know that you're their new Boss is entirely on your shoulders."

"Ah." Yes, there is that, and especially sitting down with Manner to have a chat with him about how he's not the guy taking over Cybercrime. "Then I guess I should be making an appointment to have a talk with Jenner soon."

"I'd think that would be an excellent idea."

* * *

He knows exactly what is going to happen if he heads right down to the bullpen. He'll have all four of them congratulating them, and in a matter of minutes Abby, Jimmy, and Ducky will be up for a little impromptu party.

Which would be great. Which he's intending to enjoy. But not right this second, because the guys in Cybercrime don't know about it yet, and he doesn't want them finding out via scuttlebutt. He especially does not want Manner finding out by having someone say to him, "Hey, did you know there's that guy up in the MCRT celebrating getting your job?"

So he flashes a quick text to all seven of them: _1/4/16 first day as Head of Cybercrime! Cybercrime doesn't know that yet. Need to talk to Jenner and Manner. _

As he's heading down the steps, his phone buzzes, another text from Abby to everyone, along with Breena and Penny: _If there's no hot case, we're cutting out early. 5:30. Dinner and drinks on us, at the diner._

Three quarters of the way down the steps, he's hunting through the NCIS employee directory, finding Jenner's number. He sends a quick text. _Can we talk?_

Once he's back at his desk, supposedly working, watching everyone smiling at him, smiling back at them, not really paying attention to his paperwork, feeling really happy, he gets back. _Kind of busy. Does it have to be today?_

_Be nice if it was, but no, it doesn't._

Two more minutes go by. _Got a few minutes at 2:00. That do it?_

_Probably. See you then. _

* * *

"Agent McGee."

"Jenner."

They stare at each other. He worked with Jenner briefly back when he was down here. He's changed. Jenner hasn't. Still that same tightly wound, pale, nervous personality. The kind of guy who's physical appearance is so bland he blends into the background while you're looking at him, but his mood is so nervous he puts everyone else on edge. "What can I do for you, McGee? We're kind of busy down here, big changes coming soon, and I didn't expect a request for time from the MCRT golden boy. Finally run into a puzzle so big you can't handle it on your own?"

Tim looks at Jenner strangely. There's a lot of bite in those words, and okay, yeah, he'd been spying on his team, and making sure Vance knows how inefficient Jenner's managerial style is, but he also didn't think Jenner knew that. And, also, he's thinking that it should be fairly obvious why he's down there. A senior tech guy shows up at your desk half an hour after you give notice, putting two and two together shouldn't be difficult. But he's not getting any sense that Jenner knows this call is about anything other than a case.

"It's about those changes. Vance tells me your last day is December 31st."

He sees the recognition light on Jenner's face, and felt his mood go from curt and slightly annoyed to absolutely frosty. "And your first day is January 4th."

Tim nods, smiling, trying to... He's not sure… Trying to not piss this guy off just by existing? _Screw that. _He stops smiling.

"So, why are you down here?" Jenner asks.

"I wanted to talk to you, get up to date on all the cases you're working, let your team know that I'll be taking over, transition stuff."

"Before I leave, I'll have briefs written up for all active investigations. Obviously we won't be working on the same things then as we are now."

"Nope. From now until then, when I'm not actively investigating or in court, I'd like to be down here, getting to see how you work, how your team functions, getting to know the players."

Jenner shrugs. "You can do that, but I don't think it'd be very informative. No one does their best with someone breathing down their necks."

"All right. Then I'll see how they do when they're at less than their best. When do you want to tell them I'll be taking over?"

_Never _is clear on his face. "Doesn't matter."

"Then today will work fine. I understand you were grooming Stephen Manner to be your replacement?"

He nods, terse, and Tim gets the sense that Jenner genuinely likes Manner and is pissed that he's not getting this job.

"Steve's been my right hand man for six years now."

He gets another layer of this. "And you told him he'd take over for you?"

Jenner nods. "He deserves to run this department. He's put the years in, done the job, and done it well."

Tim has his own opinions about that, but in that Manner is one of the only two techs who passed all of his tests, he deserves at least basic respect.

"Obviously Vance thinks I'll do a better job of it."

"With all due respect, Agent McGee, Vance has no idea what happens down here. He wouldn't know a worm from a phishing attack."

"But I do. And he knows that when he needs the impossible done yesterday, he calls me, not you. And he knows that when NCIS needed to up its Cyber security, you guys built a system. That system got hacked in three weeks. So, he had me build a wall around us that's never been breached. A wall so well-designed that people have had an easier time breaking into the building to use our computers than getting through by hacking. So, do you mind if I pull Manner off of his station for an hour or so and have a private chat with him?"

"Have at it, Agent McGee. I assume you know who Manner is?"

"Yes."

* * *

Manner's sitting at his desk, earbuds in, some sort of pop music blasting away, fingers flying over his keyboard. Tim doesn't interrupt. He hates it when someone breaks his flow, so he's not going to do it to someone else. Sooner or later Manner'll notice him standing there.

The correct answer is a hell of a lot later than Tim expected. For ten full minutes he stands there, watching Manner at work. By the end of the third minute, he's thinking Manner may be intentionally ignoring him, but since his eyes haven't flicked off his screen, and this is the guy who coded straight through his font attack, it's entirely possible he's really that into it.

It's a good long time to study the man. Since he's trying to get Manner to notice him without interrupting, he's facing him, so he can't see what he's doing on the computer. That leaves his physical person.

Tim's pale. He always has been, always will be. Can't be Irish back to the dawn of time and not be pale. Manner's ghostly: porcelain skin, white blonde hair, light blue eyes. Tim's debating if he's some sort of albino or whatever that tribe in Northern Europe the girl from Frozen was based on is. Either way, working in a dimly lit basement is not helping at all.

But, eventually, his fingers slow down, and Manner looks up, sees Tim, leaning against the edge of his cubicle, and jerks with surprise.

"Can I help you?"

"Yes. Hi." He holds out his hand. "I'm Tim McGee. I was wondering if you'd be willing to get a cup of coffee with me?"

Manner squints at him, seems to be figuring out who he is, does not shake his hand, and looks annoyed. "I've got work to do. Don't need to be flirting with you."

Tim stands up a bit straighter, tucking his hands into his pockets. "Let's try this again." He smiles, but it's not warm. "Hi. I'm Tim McGee, in two months I'll be your boss. I thought, since Manner kept telling you that in two months you'd be the boss, that it'd be a lot easier to get the news that wasn't going to happen in private, and that we could talk about what happens next without your eleven co-workers all listening in. So, want to get a cup of coffee with me?"

Tim waits, patiently, as what little color he has drains from Manner's face when it hits him that he's not going to be filling the office he'd been designing in his head for however many months now, then he waits through the homicidal rage phase, which lasts a bit longer than he was expecting, and he waits a few more minutes for the what-the-fuck-am-I-going-to-do-now phase to pass into the find-out-more phase.

So, all in all, he stands there for almost twenty minutes before Manner says, "Let me get my jacket."

* * *

"It wasn't supposed to be you."

Tim shrugs. It's not raining anymore and warmed up a bit, so they're sitting on one of the benches outside the Navy Yard. For all he's been thinking about this moment, because he's known for months that job one was going to be telling Manner he didn't get the job, he never felt like he'd gotten to a good way to deal with this. If Manner can play with the team, Tim wants him to play. Manner's probably about a good third of the talent NCIS Cybercrime has on staff, and losing him would hurt.

But if he can't play, or won't accept Tim as his boss, Tim's not interested in dealing with that headache.

So, somehow, he's got to get through this, making sure that Manner knows he's the better man for the job, but not alienating him so much that he decides to stick around and be a pain in his ass.

"I disagree, and Vance does, too."

Manner shakes his head. Like Jenner, he doesn't seem to hold much respect for Vance when it comes to what they do. "How did you…"

"I went up there and asked for it. I gave him a plan for where I wanted Cybercrime to go. I gave him a tactical assessment of your strengths and weaknesses. And then I showed Vance why I'd do it better than Jenner is, and honestly, better than you would, too."

Manner isn't buying that. Scorn's radiating off of him as he sips his coffee. "You really think you're good enough at this to be my boss?"

"I know I am."

Another snort. "Yeah, I know your reputation. You're the one everyone calls in when they're stuck. But it's not just hacking down there. You've got to run the team, run the ops, run the paperwork. So you're slick with a computer, fantastic for you, you've got to be a bureaucrat, too."

"I need to do it, you're right. But you don't, and Ngyn doesn't, and Hammon and Brent and Jiff and the rest of them don't. Right now, bureaucracy is the biggest problem you guys have down there. We're cops. What I need to be is a team leader. What you guys need to be is a team. You've been sitting down there thinking you're some sort of hall monitors and keeping all your paperwork tidy. You've got the cleanest record of any government agency on the east coast, lowest cracked case ratio, but your paperwork is perfect because you spend more time dotting I's and crossing Ts than you do catching bad guys. No more. We catch bad guys. We stop them from hurting people. That's our number one priority. We do it with computers instead of guns, but we work together and we do it. Are you in any way surprised that Leon found that to be a compelling vision for NCIS Cybercrime?"

"Are we being honest with each other?"

Tim holds up his hands. "Why not?"

"I don't think _Leon_ cares one way or another what happens down in Cybercrime. I don't think he has a clue as to what we do down there. I think he's got a pet who's handy with a computer who asked for a new assignment. If the rumors I hear about you are true, it's in _Leon's_ best interest to keep you happy, because otherwise you'd be a nightmare of a whistleblower. And, now, instead of running a smoothly functioning operation, I'm stuck with having to manage a cowboy who wouldn't know a rule if it jumped up and bit him in the ass."

Manner looks sincerely taken aback when Tim bursts out laughing at that.

Tim shakes his head. "The rule thing. You have no idea. And if you'd ever seen me near a horse, you'd know why I'm laughing at the cowboy image."

"Rumor has it you've hacked the CIA, FBI, DOD, Justice, Mossad, Coast Guard, MI5 and 6, more private companies than anyone can list, more individuals than anyone can count, couldn't care less about legal or warrants, and you think you're good on rules?"

Tim smiles, still amused, but he can see this is pissing Manner off. "The thing about rumors, most of them aren't true. But the thing I find really interesting here is this, you seem significantly more interested in following the rules than catching the bad guys."

"If we don't follow the rules, we are the bad guys."

"Justice and Law aren't synonyms."

"Said every villain ever."

"I'll remember not to send you in on the wet work missions."

Manner's eyes went wide.

Tim holds up his hands again. "I'm kidding. The real question is, do you want to stick around? I can guarantee you Cybercrime under me will not look like Cybercrime under Jenner. If you don't like that, I won't hold you leaving against you. Jenner'll give you a great review, and I will, too. If you aren't interested in working for a 'villain,' now might be a very good time to spruce up your resume.

"But, you are one of the two techs who passed every test I ran. And while I don't like what you did with that, I don't want half of my best talent running off as soon as I show up."

"Don't like… Tests…?" Manners is looking very confused by this.

"Like I said, I did a tactical assessment for Leon of your strengths and weaknesses. Think it's a coincidence you've been hacked several times since summer? You and Ngyn were the only ones who noticed I was doing it. She actually figured out it was me. Vance had to tell you because you missed my breadcrumb trail. Neither of you thought it was worth pulling your team into action, or letting Jenner know what was up.

"My first goal for this team is that it will be a team. One of you gets hacked, it'll be an all hands on deck until we're secure again. I sat there and watched as all twelve of you had your screens go bonkers, and most of you did nothing. You coded straight through it, and didn't even make a move until after you'd finished your work.

"And if you think that maybe you deserve Cybercrime more than I do, that you'd do a better job of it, that I'm getting this department because I'm being paid off to keep me happy and silent, then you need to ask yourself why you didn't rally your team, fix the breech, and find who caused it? Because I can absolutely guarantee I would have, and Vance knows that."

"I didn't 'rally the team' as you put it, because I knew the attack was coming from the inside. It didn't do anything important, so there was no reason to go full bore on it. Vance said it was a test, so there was no reason to go any further."

"The attack looked like it was coming from the inside. It wasn't."

"Yeah, well no one is suggesting you don't know your way around a computer."

"I'm flat out saying that you're the second best person in Cybercrime and you fell asleep at the switch. And, not to put too fine a point on it, but ever since I built the wall we've got protecting NCIS, all attacks have come from the inside. No one's gotten through from the outside, which also should have been a huge neon sign for who was hacking you. So, if you're staying with us, I want the words, 'coming from the inside' to vanish from your vocabulary. I know for a fact we've had people break in to screw with us, because it's easier to get into the building than it is to get into the computers."

Manner is not looking thrilled with this assessment.

"So, you sticking around?"

He shakes his head. "I don't know."

"Fair enough."

* * *

He heads back into Cybercrime with Manner, who goes straight back to his cubical. From there he stops by Jenner. "You've told them you were resigning, right?"

"Yeah. Told 'em Stephen was their new Boss, too."

Tim mentally winces. "Wonderful." He thinks for another moment. "Was 'busy' code for getting the congratulations party in order?"

"It was."

"You mind if I get them together to tell them I'm taking over in January?"

"Go for it."

"Thanks." Tim turns away from Jenner and quickly notices there's no good workflow here. He can't just gather them together or call campfire. His eyes flick over the basement, straight rows of cubicles, huge bank of filing cabinets, at the far end there's a counter, a coffee pot, a soda machine, and a snack vending machine.

Closest thing they've got to a meeting place.

He takes a minute to set the text then sent it to all of his team. _Meet at the coffee pot. 15:05._

And in five minutes he had twelve techs, all standing, pretty awkwardly, in front of the coffee pot, most of them looking around curiously.

"I'm Tim McGee. I work upstairs with the MCRT." They kind of nod along with that. From the way they're looking at him, they're expecting him to hand them a problem to solve. "Jenner told you today that he's resigning at the end of December. Come the beginning of January, I'll be taking over as Head of Cybercrime." Eleven sets of eyes all turn toward Manner. He rolls his eyes, shrugs a bit, and gives them a _life sucks_ gesture. "Right now, I'm still a field agent, so as often as I need to be in the field, I'll be out there, but when I'm not investigating, I'll be down here, talking to you guys, seeing what you're doing, getting a feel for how you do it. Come January 4th, I want to be able to hit the ground running, up to date on your cases." They all sort of nod at that.

"I guess what you really want to know is what is going to happen when I take over. Is everything going to be change? Yes. It is. Part of what I'll be doing is figuring out what you do and how to do it better. Any ideas you've got, plans you'd like to see put in place, stuff that just bugs the hell out of you, all of it, make notes, talk to me. I haven't worked down here since '08, and I was only here for four months, so I've got no attachment to any ways or traditions. You can't step on my toes by telling me you don't like how things are done. Can't win points by liking how things are either.

"Total blank slate time. We're going to rebuild from the grown up. So, from now until January, keep thinking about how you want this job to be. Think about what tools, what practices you need to be able to do your job as well as you possibly can."

They all stare at him. He hands out a stack of his cards. "Anything you want, need, want to talk about, drop me an email. I'm in court tomorrow and the next day, so I won't be down then, but if a case doesn't go hot, I hope to be down here on Thursday, just getting a sense of how this works."

There's some mumbling along the lines of, "Okay, yeah, we'll think about it," but he knows that they really just want him to head the hell off so they can commiserate with Manner and gossip with each other about him without him listening in.

"Okay. See you Thursday!"

* * *

He was in the elevator when he got the text from Tony. _Dead body. Meet us at the car. _So much for celebrating.

* * *

It's well past two in the morning when he gets home. Like anytime they get a dead body call, he heads straight for the washing machine to deposit his clothing, and sitting on top of the washer, where Abby knew he'd be, was one of the tirimisu cupcakes he loves.

Next to it is a piece of paper with a little heart on it.

He smiles, takes a bite, and heads to his office to decompress for a few minutes before going to bed.


End file.
